A decision made
by Angel10242
Summary: John's voice dropped into that dangerous, seductive tone, "if it was right now I'd want to toy with you and play with you and see what kind of things gave me the most satisfaction when done to you." Sequel to 'a choice' A twisted kind of johnlock romance. Warning: references to self-harm, bdsm, m/m and lots of other fun things. Don't read if these things will offend you.
1. Chapter 1

**This story continues directly on from where 'a choice' left off... 'a choice' was originally going to be a stand alone story but I liked the concept too much and wanted to develop it further, so think of that story as chapter one to the events here. This is all silly kinky fluffy fun - nothing serious, but fun to write.**

**I don't think I've got the 'voices' of the two of them quite right against the divine BBC adaptation they are based on, and I definitely don't think the characters would ever end up in this kind of situation, but I'm having fun with my version and I hope you will too. Enjoy!**

**Warnings: Light D/s power games, m/m**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, and make no gains from this work**

**oOo oOo oOo**

Sherlock was bored. There had been no cases for _days _now, and his interest in everything around him had ground to a halt. No cases meant no deductions, and no fun chases through London with John. No cases meant John went off to the clinic every day to take of other people, and not Sherlock. Not that Sherlock was jealous, or possessive, or anything, but he liked it when John was there, with him. Even when John too was _boring._

John was definitely not bored. He'd done 4 very long days in a row at the clinic and was tired and looking forward to getting home, eating leftovers out of the fridge and watching crap TV. Preferably without interruption from Sherlock, who insisted on predicting the outcome of any drama he was watching within the first 5 minutes, making it hardly worth the bother of actually viewing it. He almost hoped that the detective had some hideously gruesome experiment going on in the kitchen to occupy his time and give the doctor a couple of hours of peace.

As John made his way to the front door he sighed, feeling instinctively that this was going to be a long night. He put his key in the lock, opened the door, and steeled himself to the potential onslaught. To his amazement Mrs Hudson didn't come racing out of her flat to complain about Sherlock shooting the walls again, and he couldn't hear sounds of discordant violin torture from upstairs either. Crossing his fingers, he headed up the stairs. Would this be the night - the one and only night - that he found Sherlock doing something normal like cooking dinner, or tidying his chemicals away? He opened the door to the flat and surveyed the scene in front of him. "I guess that remains a pipe dream" he said to himself as he looked around at the detritus Sherlock had left, and the detective slumped on the sofa, looking at the floor, violin in one hand.

With a quick, unanswered "hi" to Sherlock, John took himself off to his room and then to the bathroom for a long hot shower. Once he was clean and with fresh clothes on he felt more human, more able to deal with his difficult flatmate. He went back to the living room, started to try and organise the chaos, gave it up as a lost cause, and made a cup of tea instead. He made Sherlock one too, out of habit, and because he was a little worried the detective would ignore the basics of keeping hydrated without prompting. Sherlock's body might be little more than 'transport' to him, but he kicked up a heck of a lot of fuss if it broke down on him and he hated being forced to concede that he needed to take better care of himself.

John plonked the mugs down on the edge of the table, pushing something that looked like a petri dish of purple fur out of the way. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. John sat back and waited for the ranting to begin. He could read Sherlock like a book some days, and today his flatmate's expression was clearly the one of someone who had something to say, and wasn't going to stop until it was said.

"I've been thinking," started Sherlock. John tried to refrain from rolling his eyes - when exactly did Sherlock _not _think? He was rewarded with a frown from the detective. Clearly John hadn't been as good as he thought at keeping an exasperated expression from crossing his face.

"I've been thinking" repeated Sherlock, continuing to scowl at the doctor, "about the other evening. In your room." John looked at Sherlock, interested as to where this was heading. They hadn't spoken about it since the little banter in the taxi the day after the night before, and John had been expecting an interrogation ever since.

"Yes, Sherlock?" responded the doctor mildly.

"I need more data," came the unexpected reply. John took his time, thinking about what Sherlock was asking, all the subtle levels within those simple words. Finally, reaching out for his tea and taking a cautionary sip, he responded,

"Ask away Sherlock. I'll try and answer all of your questions."

"You thought that the best way of stopping me from hurting myself was for you to do it for me? Why?"

John paused for a moment before responding. He wanted to be completely honest with his friend and give him a proper answer. "I thought that I would be better at gauging when to stop than you are yourself" he said, "and I thought that it would help you if someone else took charge, physically and mentally."

"It wasn't the first time you'd done that." More of a statement than a question, but Sherlock still looked at John for a response, his hands steepled under his chin as he stared intently at his friend.

"No" John confirmed, "As you have undoubtably deduced, I've done similar things before in relationships. I met a girl when I was at University who introduced me to the pleasures of restraining someone, and I've always known I enjoy being in charge in the bedroom. You called me a sadist in the cab the other day, and I guess I am to an extent. The other night... I liked watching your reaction to me hurting you - and the knowledge I could do anything I wanted to you and you wouldn't be able to stop me. And I liked it when you finally gave in to the sensations." At this John grinned, enjoying the memory, "I liked that you were unable to control your reaction to me."

Sherlock assessed John, both his words and his demeanor. He could see the sincerity and truth in what John was saying, but there was also an edge his friend was deliberately avoiding. Sherlock wondered if John even knew himself that there was more to it? Storing it all away to process in more detail later, he asked another question.

"Do you think about it?"

A difficult one to answer as John had thought about it constantly. It had invaded his working day, his dreams, his everything. He had found the evening intoxicating and disturbingly arousing. He really didn't want Sherlock to know that. The detective already had enough trouble with personal interactions without thinking his flatmate was dreaming about him. _Definitely_ didn't want him to have an inkling as to what those dreams looked like either - each more dangerously lewd than the last. Aware his own words would be his downfall, he kept himself to a simple answer, "Yes, I've thought about it", knowing that even those five words would tell Sherlock far more than he had intended to reveal.

Sherlock nodded, adding both the spoken and unspoken response to his internal file. He thought before phrasing the next question. He wanted to express something to John but it was complex and to do with feelings. He knew from other people's reactions to him that he didn't always get such things correct. Although John usually saw through what he said to what he meant; John was good at that. Sherlock took a breath then started cautiously, "I, uh, I've thought about it too, how good it felt. How did you know that was what I wanted? That I wouldn't reject your suggestion?"

John smiled at Sherlock's admission that it had felt good. He was pleased to hear the detective admit that. He had wondered sadly if the experience would be dismissed, and get deleted as non-essential information in that great mind of his. It had been a surprisingly intimate experience for John, and he was gratified that Sherlock had given it some thought. The doctor decided that instead of answering, a question of his own was reasonable at this point. So leant forward in his chair, looked directly at Sherlock and countered, "which bit felt good?"

"Uh," Sherlock frowned, trying to put into words what he had felt, "well the physical stimulus to the nociceptor neurons produced the expected stimulation of the opiate neurotransmitters. The endorphin and dynorphin response was quite impressive..." he trailed off, his frown deepening as he saw John grinning broadly at him.

"May I remind you I'm a doctor? I don't want the text book description of what pain does to the chemistry of your brain, Sherlock" chided John, "I want to know how the experience felt to you"

"Strange" came the frank reply, "It was... strange. And interesting. New. I haven't done anything like that before." Sherlock was privately amazed at how forthcoming these words were. He had intended to hold back, but for some reason felt compelled to tell John the truth.

"I'm a little surprised at that" John admitted, "I thought when you were younger you might have dabbled. I know how curious you are about everything so I assumed you had probably tried it at some point."

Sherlock huffed and immediately got defensive, "I don't know why you'd think that," his voice raising in indignation. "I don't go around voluntarily putting myself into a position where someone else can inflict harm on me."

"But you did with me." John responded, wondering if Sherlock was able to see the paradox in his denouncement. "You did what I told you to, and allowed me to restrain you, and hurt you. Why was that?"

Silence.

"I don't know" came the eventual reply.

Sherlock's mind was racing. He wasn't quite sure how he had ended up answering the questions. When he had initiated the conversation he had very clear on how it was meant to go, and now he had the feeling he'd lost the lead. This didn't happen to him - he was the cool, calm consulting detective - the one who didn't have feelings and dismissed emotions and his body as mere 'transport' for his brain. But he was starting to feel a little flustered. He surreptitiously moved his hands to check his pulse on one wrist - elevated. He could hear his breath quickening and he was pretty sure if he'd looked in a mirror his pupils would be enlarged. What was wrong with him? Why was just talking about this causing his body to respond?

John saw the distracted, slightly alarmed look on Sherlocks face and took pity on him. He decided to answer the original question. "Was I sure you wouldn't reject my suggestion? No, not really. But remember I had seen your response to controlled pain in the bathroom the night I caught you with the knife, so I knew you had an interest in it. And I know _you, _Sherlock. I spend most of my waking hours with you when I'm not at the clinic. I might not have your astoundingly brilliant deduction skills, but I see how you react to stimulus." John thought he could push it a touch further, so he lowered his voice slightly, modulating to add emphasis, before saying slowly and seductively "In fact, I can see how excited even this discussion is making you Sherlock. You are positively on edge. Do you want to ask me for some more... _physical experiences_... for your data gathering?"

"John!" Sherlock gasped, "I, uh, no, I mean, what?" he stammered, totally out of his depth in this conversation. How had John been able to read him so well? He was usually better at keeping his thoughts under wraps than this - either John had improved or Sherlock was slipping.

John laughed, amused at how easy he was finding it to get the upper hand for once with Sherlock. He was quite content to be the detective's right hand man when they were out solving cases, and was in awe of his friend's truly astounding brain, but he thought it did both their egos some good for the tables to be turned on occasions. "Remember rule three Sherlock, you can ask me for it any time you like."

"What if I did ask?" said Sherlock cautiously, "what would you want to do?"

"That depends... If you were to ask me in the middle of a difficult case like last time, when it was a last resort, I'd probably give you a similar experience - expediency being the key when you need your brain to get back to work quickly. But it if was now..." and again John's voice dropped into that dangerous, seductive tone, "if it was _right now_ I'd want to toy with you and play with you and see what kind of things gave me the most satisfaction when done to you. There would be no rush, no need to hurry things. I could experiment on you all evening."

Sherlock found himself enthralled, much to his internal disgust. He could see John was positively licking his lips in anticipation. He found it disturbingly easy to conjure up images in his mind matching John's words. And he could feel his breath catch in excitement and expectation. He _wanted_ it! He wanted to be John's experiment, and discover what made his body tick. This was all so refreshingly new. He'd never really been one for physical pleasures before, finding them fleeting in their attraction. But the combination of the physical elements with the mental stimulation John was offering was compelling.

Suddenly he needed to get away, take a step back from the situation which had escalated rapidly out of Sherlock's control. He broke eye contact, stood up from the sofa quickly and, without looking back at John, raced to his room, slamming the door behind him. John watched him leave, half amused that he'd been able to provoke such a reaction from Sherlock, and half frustrated that he wasn't going to be able to play this evening after all.

oOo oOo oOo

John ate dinner alone, and managed to get an hour to himself to indulge in crap tv and some peace. He mind wandered frequently to thoughts of the detective and what kind of things he might do to him next time Sherlock came to John's room. Because John was under no illusions that it wouldn't happen again - and probably soon. Sherlock's curiosity would win out, he was sure of it, especially after that evening's conversation. So when he made his way up to bed some time later he was disappointed the detective hadn't resurfaced from his room. That is until he was woken by a gentle knock on his bedroom door in the middle of the night. He switched on the bedside light and opened the door to find Sherlock standing behind it, looking unsure of himself.

"You want to ask me something?" He asked his friend coolly, hoping he was able to suppress the glee he felt inside at Sherlock's arrival.

"John, I, would you? Um, things, yes." Sherlock shook his head in frustration at the way his words weren't obeying him yet again, took a deep breath and looked into John's eyes, before starting again, "John, I'd like it if you would make me feel that way again. Please."

John said nothing, merely opened the door wider and indicated Sherlock should enter the room, before John closed the door behind him.

Time to play...


	2. Chapter 2

John stifled a yawn as he closed the door behind Sherlock. He was half asleep and desperately wanted to crawl back into his bed, but he'd be damned if he was going to miss out on this opportunity to toy with Sherlock. Who knew when the detective would summon the courage to try again?

Sherlock was standing just inside the room, looking at John's bed. John assessed him from behind. Sherlock was wearing blue striped pyjama bottoms, a tshirt, and a robe. John thought this was something he could work with. Last time he had been careful to keep his distance from the detective physically, having made him strip. This time he thought he'd keep the clothing in place, and get closer - a _lot_ closer.

"I want you to take off your robe and t-shirt, then replace the robe, before lying on my bed on your back" he told Sherlock. As Sherlock moved to obey him silently, John reached into the closet and found a pair of trousers to put on over the t-shirt and boxers he had been sleeping in. His mind was going through various scenarios and he wondered if he should get some props. Thinking quickly, he told Sherlock he'd be right back, then raced down to the kitchen. He knew he's seen something in one of the drawers the other day which would be perfect for this evening's fun. He didn't want to overwhelm with implements - tonight was more about taking things slowly and seeing what made Sherlock tick - but a couple of accessories wouldn't hurt. Grabbing a glass of water too he headed back to his room, pleased to note when he closed the door that Sherlock had done as asked and laid on the bed.

Sherlock was lying rigid, his eyes wide open, staring at John's ceiling. In his head he was frantically calculating the odds of whether he should stay or go. It was a close call. It had taken him a good two hours of thought in his own room before he had impulsively knocked on John's door, and he still wasn't sure it had been the right decision. He had got as far as sitting up and reaching for his top, having come to the conclusion he should leave, when he heard John's footsteps on the stairs and panicked and laid back down. Now his heart was thumping - far too loud and far too fast - and he found himself chewing on his lower lip with nervous anticipation. This was a mistake. Why was he here? He should just get up and walk out and never speak of it again. But if it was such a mistake, why was he so _excited?_

Sherlock watched John put the water and whatever else he'd brought up on the table, out of Sherlock's view. John sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over to speak softly to Sherlock. "I want to talk to you first, okay?" he said, "and I want you to ask any questions you need to. I know I told you that you couldn't talk in here but as we are starting out I need to be sure you are consenting to what I am doing. I don't want to do anything you are uncomfortable with."

Keeping his body rigid and his head still Sherlock glanced quickly at John, then went back to staring at the ceiling. He gave a swift nod of acknowledgement.

"Right. Good. Tonight I want to try a few things on you and see what you like, what intensity you like, and what you don't. Think of it as data gathering," John added as an aside, with a grin, "I'm not going to tie you up - you will have to keep still for me. But I am going to touch you... and anywhere that is currently uncovered I may decide to test on. I won't remove any more clothing that you have already taken off, and I won't touch you anywhere else without your permission. Is that acceptable?"

Sherlock considered John's words. He had put the robe back on so essentially his chest was bare but the rest of him covered. He thought that yes, this would be acceptable, although he wondered at the limits John was setting when last time he had been naked. But as this seemed to be in Sherlock's favour he ignored the internal query and merely replied "Yes John, that seems okay"

John nodded approvingly at Sherlock's polite tone, glad he had remembered the rules. "Is there anything you don't want me to do?" he asked, "anywhere or anything that is completely off limits?"

"I don't think so..." said Sherlock cautiously, "can I tell you if I change my mind?"

"Of course," reassured John, and continued, "you need a safe word... something you can say to me that I know means you want to stop." He thought for a moment. "How about we keep it simple - if you want a breather or for me to slow down you say 'amber', and if you want to stop completely you say 'red'?"

"Seems simple enough," confirmed Sherlock, although he was secretly slightly disappointed that John had given him an 'out'. He had liked the freedom last time of not having to think about whether he wanted it to stop as that wasn't an option. Privately he resolved that he wasn't going to say either word unless it was really truly intolerable.

John caught the flash of rebellion in Sherlock's eyes and had a pretty good idea of what the detective thought. He knew that Sherlock saw safe words as a challenge and one he intended to win. John was fine with that - he just wouldn't play the game. If Sherlock was unwilling to back down when things got too much, then John would do it for him. He didn't mind, he thought that Sherlock would probably never stop him given half a chance - he was so focussed on the 'hit' he wouldn't care what John did to take him there.

Sherlock felt the bed move as John climbed on it, and was surprised when the doctor straddled him, sitting on him just below his waist. John reached down and picked up Sherlock's arms, stroking the wrists as he drew them up to above his head, wrists together, resting on the pillow. He leant against them, his body covering Sherlock's, and spoke gently into his friend's ear, "keep your arms here, pet. Don't move them". Sherlock shivered in anticipation and at the unexpected intimacy of the whisper. He was starting to become aware that this was a very different situation to last time - where John had promised no sex and it was all about the hard sensation of pain. This was much closer, with definite sexual undertones. And why was he suddenly 'pet'? Who knew where this would end up tonight? He comforted himself with the knowledge he wasn't restrained and could walk away any time he liked.

John was well aware that he was pushing Sherlock's buttons with the close physical contact and the whispers. He knew it was out of Sherlock's comfort zone, but that was half the fun... because it wasn't clinical for John and he was determined that Sherlock get to appreciate the sensual nature of this kind of play as well as the endorphin rush. He saw Sherlock's shiver and smiled to himself, allowing his lips to brush against Sherlock's ear before rising. It wasn't that he wanted to turn him on as such, just wanted to add another layer to the anticipation and make him even more aware of what John was doing. After all, the whole point was to get Sherlock's endlessly whirring brain to pause and focus just on the present, and on sensation rather than thought.

He sat up and rested his hands on Sherlock's chest, feeling the detective's breath quickening as he tried to anticipate John's next move. John gently stroked down his chest, from his shoulders down to the waistband of his pyjamas. He kept his strokes constant, and started to talk. Sherlock found himself frozen in place, unsure whether the action was calming or terrifying, as he listened.

"I'm going to enjoy testing you tonight Sherlock," murmured John, as his hands continued to stroke, "You woke me up from a very pleasant dream, so I'm feeling somewhat less generous than I was earlier. I was going to be kind - to _give_ you what _you_ wanted. But now I think I'll _take _what_ I _want instead. Is that fair?"

No response.

John casually lifted his right hand and slapped Sherlock across the face. Hard.

Sherlock gasped, and looked in horror at John, who looked down at him calmly and resumed the stroking of his bare chest as he reminded him, "Rule two, Sherlock, speak when you are spoken to." John noted with interest that although Sherlock looked shocked and unsure of what had happened, he hadn't moved his arms or tried to get away. And the slap had been hard - he hadn't held back. He could already see a deliciously red hand print rising on Sherlock's cheek. He really was surprisingly easy to dominate in this setting. Although John still hadn't had a response to his question. He raised his arm slowly this time, to give the detective a chance to rectify the situation.

Sherlock's ears were ringing and one side of his face burned. His whole being was focussed on the sensation - the blankness in his mind was bliss. He wanted to touch where John had struck him and ease some of the heat and see if he could feel each individual finger in the print, but didn't dare move his arms. He saw John's hand rising again to strike him and was alarmed... What had he missed? There must have been a question he was supposed to have answered... Sherlock replayed the last minute in his head then spoke quickly, "Yes John, I think that's fair".

"Good boy. Right answer." And with that the arm was lowered and the stroking resumed, endlessly following the same path from Sherlock's shoulders, down across his chest, to his waist, then back to his shoulders. John was careful to keep his actions steady and not to pause anywhere that might be of more interest than elsewhere. Although he couldn't help but notice that Sherlock's pulse raced a little faster, his breath quickening and his face a little flushed every time John reached his waistband, or ran over his nipples. _Interesting_. Not as asexual as he professed to being then.

The next time down John changed the angle, and instead of the pads of his fingers he used his nails to scrape down Sherlock's front. He watched carefully for the reaction... a slight indrawn breath and flash of interest in his eyes. So he did it again, this time using a firmer stroke, taking his time as he pulled his nails over the skin, stopped only when he ran out of bare flesh. He sat back and admired the light pink marks already rising on Sherlock's porcelain-white skin.

"You really do have beautiful skin, pet," he said conversationally to the man lying under him, "It marks so easily. It's like a blank canvas for me to decorate." And John took his hands wider this time, running his nails along the edge of Sherlock's ribs and down the side of his waist. He had put a touch more pressure into these, and the lines were a darker hue. He admired his work as he asked, "Do you like that, Sherlock?"

"Yes John" came the quick reply. Sherlock was surprised to find his voice came out gasping slightly. He thought he could control himself better than that.

"Want me to go harder?"

"Oh, yes please John", even quicker than last time.

John laughed softly, and took his hands back up to Sherlock's shoulders. Cupping his hands slightly so his nails would drag on the skin he slowly and firmly brought then down... over Sherlock's collar bones, over his pectorals while deliberately avoiding the nipples, bumping over each rib as he went lower, dipping under them to travel across Sherlock's flat stomach, until they stopped level with his belly button. He was gratified to hear a stifled moan escape from Sherlock.

"Test one complete." Remarked John dryly, doing a passable impression of Sherlock working in the lab, "Sherlock - I mean _the subject_ - appears to find my nails dragging across his skin pleasant, although the pleasure appears to increase exponentially as the pressure rises." He grinned down at Sherlock, who tried to scowl back at him, but couldn't quite keep his mouth from curving up into a smile. "Want to see what else I can do to you with these nails?"

Sherlock gulped and nodded, and was rewarded with John's fingers travelling lightly back up his ribs to rest on his chest. He felt fingers brush against his nipples until they rose involuntarily into hard peaks. Then John took them between the nails of his thumbs and second fingers, and squeezed gently. He watched with amusement as Sherlock visibly shuddered, his eyes half closing in pleasure as John teased and tormented, pulling the hard nubs with his nails, rolling them and twisting them, exploring how sensitive they were and how reactive to his actions. Despite being fascinated by the effect his fingers were having on Sherlock's nipples he watched the detective's face closely, and when he saw the faintest trace of worry pass through Sherlock's eyes he eased up and released, gently rubbing them with finger tips. Then, surprising himself as well as Sherlock, he leant down and kissed them, first the left, then the right. Little chaste kisses to soothe them and relieve some of the pain.

"Sensitive," John observed dryly. "I'm going to enjoy seeing how much you can take on your nipples... maybe next time I'll clamp them. You'd like that," he remarked conversationally, rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's red and swollen flesh, "It kind of throbs while the clamps are on, but it is when they are removed and the blood rushes back that you'll _really_ appreciate the sensation."

Sherlock was in a daze. One part of his brain was astounded at how quickly he had fallen. John had hardly done anything to him and he was already feeling the effects. It wasn't just the physical sensations, although they were interesting enough, but the mental stimulation. All the conversation and the role reversal was making it very hard for Sherlock to focus on anything at all apart from John and his voice and those hands. John's face was different to usual somehow - more intense. His eyes were icy blue and Sherlock noted his pupils were enlarged... Sherlock wasn't the only one enjoying this. And he was smiling, but there was almost a cruel edge to it that Sherlock had never seen before. Sherlock couldn't reconcile this man with the mild mannered doctor who was everyone's friend and who meekly did whatever Sherlock asked without a second's thought.

_But that wasn't true, was it? _ Because Sherlock _had_ seen other sides to John - he'd had glimpses of the army Captain from John's life before, and other things too. The man who carried a gun on their cases and didn't hesitate to kill, a man who had seen too much and had actively participated in violence for the greater good. He had nightmares about Afghanistan, Sherlock knew, but he had never expressed regret. So the darker sides to the good doctor weren't that far beneath the surface, even on a good day. It was just that the exterior impression he gave the world was so far removed from it, that Sherlock doubted anyone ever bothered to look twice and see it. Certainly he himself had never suspected John's kinks lied in this direction, and _he_ deduced everyone with barely a glance. John was getting more interesting by the day.

John watched Sherlock's face with a raised eyebrow, waiting for the detective to finish analysing him and get back into the moment. He was feeling lenient - Sherlock had pleased him by not objecting to anything yet, and by being so damned responsive, so he let the momentary inattention slide. When he felt Sherlock had been given long enough he tweaked his nipples until Sherlock's full focus was back on John's face.

Maintaining eye contact, John leaned over Sherlock until they were almost breathing into each other's mouths. He put one hand over the detective's wrists to hold them in place, and the other on his throat. Leaning forward, he whispered in Sherlock's ear, "close your eyes." Sherlock, groaned slightly and did as he was told, feeling completely and utterly dominated by the body on top of him. He felt the fingers round his throat tighten slightly and he wondered for a second if John was going to choke him. But instead he found his head being tipped to one side, John directing the angle with the grip he held. Sherlock waited, keyed up with anticipation as to what would be next. He was rewarded with a gentle nip on the edge of his collar bone. He stiffened and his eyes flew open in surprise. John's grip on his neck tightened and he moved back up to growl into Sherlock's ear, "Do as you are told or I'll stop". Sherlock really didn't want him to stop, so he took a breath, consciously tried to relax, and closed his eyes again. "Good boy" John whispered in his ear, brushing his lips over the skin, before setting his teeth onto Sherlock's earlobe and gently tugging on it.

Sherlock was in agony. He couldn't decide if the nips and bites John was inflicting all the way down the right side of his neck and collar bone were pleasure or pain? Too much sensation or too little? If he wanted it to stop, or for John to keep going forever? Without meaning to he groaned out loud. John merely chuckled and bit again, slowly making his way back up to Sherlock's ear.

"I want to mark you," he told Sherlock, his voice low and breathy, "will you allow me to? I want to leave a line of bruises along here..." and he traced a line with his lips down Sherlock's neck, "I want to make sure you remember you are mine... my pet, my plaything."

Sherlock was fully committed. He didn't really care what John was offering right then, he would have said yes to it, he just wanted this to continue. It was heavenly to be able to lie there and just _feel_ and not have to think about anything else. This wasn't even about the pain, for nothing they had done had been more than fleeting in that respect, but about the general sensation. Being under someone else's control was so new to the detective - he had never allowed his guard down to this extent with anyone but John. He could feel the man's lips brushing over his neck and he flashed to an image of himself looking in the bathroom mirror the following day and seeing a row of little bruises there. He groaned again in anticipation and managed to reply "Oh God, yes, please, do it John".

John laughed softly and continued to brush the skin with his lips, enjoying the softness of it and feeling the slight dips and rises where his teeth had made contact earlier. He could smell a faint hint of cologne, and almond soap, and something that was just _Sherlock_. John was very aware that this hadn't quite gone as he intended, and that he had made it far more emotive than originally planned, when it was supposed to be clinical and all about testing reactions. But he'd got caught up in the moment, and Sherlock had looked so damned delicious and debauched under him, and he kept making all those little noises that John just _adored_. He couldn't help but want to respond to his alpha-male instincts which were all growling '_mine_' every time he looked down at his friend. It wasn't even about sex, it was about him being allowed to do these things to this amazing man who no one else was allowed to touch, and wanting everyone to know it. Childish, base, but oh so hot!

John was careful though. He knew that Sherlock would not appreciate anything being obviously visible to others, so he made sure to aim for areas that would be covered by his shirt collar. He started on the collar bone... slowly sucking and biting the skin, raising the blood to the surface, leaving a perfect little bright red oval that he knew would last a couple of days at least. And then another, slightly higher, on the edge of Sherlock's neck. He couldn't help but smile as he did it, listening to the involuntary gasps and moaning sounds the detective was making. He did it again and again, a perfect line of ownership of Sherlock's skin, until he felt the detective gasp, and shakily say "stop, please, no more". With a sigh of resignation, he rose back up to sit back on his legs, and removed his hands from Sherlock's wrists and throat.

"Had enough?" he asked, "Do you want a break, or to stop completely?"

"A break please. That was a bit more intense than I expected."

John smiled down at him, looking like his friend again rather than his _whatever-this-was_. "It was a bit, wasn't it" he agreed in a gentle tone. "Keep still, I'll get you some water."

He moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed and reached over to the bedside table and the glass of water he'd brought up earlier. Carefully he helped Sherlock to sit up and gave him the water to drink. He waited until the detective had finished, then gestured for him to lie down again while John went back to his original position sitting on top of Sherlock.

"I have one test left," he explained, "If you are up to it? If not I'll keep it for another time."

Sherlock was feeling surprisingly dozy and compliant as he lay on the bed looking up at John. Although this hadn't been the same type of experience as the last time in John's room or what Sherlock had expected, it was different and new and shiny and Sherlock was enjoying adding each element to his brain to reflect on later in depth. He smiled sleepily up at John, "I'd like to do that, if you want to, whatever it is."

"Thank you." John reached over to the table and brought out the items he'd found downstairs in the kitchen - a plain white candle and a box of matches. Placing the candle upright on the table he struck a match and lit it while Sherlock watched with a speculative look. Looking down at Sherlock he frowned. The skin on his chest would be sensitive. He would have to be careful with the wax not to get too close - he didn't want to burn his friend, just tease him. "Give me your arm, pet." Sherlock complied and held out his left arm. John pushed the sleeve up to Sherlock's elbow and turned it over so the sensitive underside was facing him. Stroking Sherlock's wrist with one hand he reached over to pick up the lit candle with the other. He held the candle above Sherlock's arm, a couple of inches above the skin.

"I want you to know how this is going to feel on your skin," John told him, candle hovering, "I know you've burnt yourself many times before by accident, but this is a bit different because you are going to be feeling sensitive after the stuff we've done. So I'm going to show you on your arm first and you are going to tell me what is bearable and what is too much." Very carefully he let a dribble of wax fall on the detective's skin. It stayed liquid for a moment, before quickly solidifying. He was gratified to hear a gasp from Sherlock that was definitely more pleasure than pain. Carefully, he moved the candle closer, to half the distance and tipped it again. Again there was a gasp, but this time it was a touch tighter. He put the candle on the table and brushed the dried wax off Sherlock's arm before placing it back on the pillow.

"Well?" he asked, allowing some of the sterner tone to go back into his voice.

There was a pause as Sherlock analysed and then responded in a slightly clinical tone, "Both were bearable, but the first was more, um, pleasurable. I think something in between the two might be the best?"

John nodded. He leant over and switched off the bedside light, leaving the room in darkness apart from the candle which he now brought back over Sherlock's body. The small glow from the flame made the space suddenly feel much smaller and more intimate - like it was just the two of them in a bubble the size of the bed. Slowly he traced the unlit end of the candle down the middle of Sherlock's chest, watching the light fall on the sparse hairs and the curve of his ribs. He brought it back up to the pectorals before raising it slightly away from the skin and tipping slowly, dribbling wax in a stripe, making sure to include his still slightly swollen nipple. Sherlock's reaction was gratifyingly intense - his fists clenched and he rose up off the bed as his back arched. A small groan escaped his lips, although it was clear he was trying to suppress it.

John laughed softly, "I did warn you it would be more intense than you expected."

Sherlock focused and tried to relax again, consciously un-tensing his muscles. He looked up at John, "I'm okay John"

"Watch me, don't close your eyes." John spoke softly, his focus on the candle he was moving slowly over and around Sherlock's middle. He brought it up to the detective's ribs on the opposite side to where he had worked last time, and slowly dripped the wax, drop by drop, carefully following the edge of the rib cage from his side back to the sternum. It was enthralling. Such a simple little game, but watching the wax fall, splash, then harden one drop at a time was intoxicating. So he did it again on the other side, then one rib further up, and again, until all of Sherlock's visible ribs had a line of opaque splashes following them. He was so engrossed in the visual it took a while to realise that Sherlock was breathing rather rapidly underneath him, with little gasps. To his surprise his own breath had quickened too. "You look amazing, Sherlock" he whispered admiringly, moving the candle around to inspect his work, stroking the red scratches under the pools of white wax, the reddened bite marks on Sherlock's neck, the slightly flushed cheek from the earlier slap. John felt strangely honoured to have been able to do this to him.

Carefully, John put the candle down on the bedside table. He felt at peace. Now all he wanted to do was sleep. With a groan he moved off of Sherlock, his legs stiff from being in one position for too long. He looked down at his wax-splattered friend and smiled. Neither felt compelled to say anything so John got up silently and found a towel before rubbing Sherlock's chest gently to remove the wax. Sherlock lay there and let him do it, his mind floating pleasantly. The roughness of the towel was quite welcome - yet another physical sensation for him to map and catalogue. Besides, he liked it when John looked after him.

John stifled a yawn, then failed to get the second under control. With a rueful grin he grabbed Sherlock's wrists and helped pull him up. "Sorry pet, I'm falling asleep here" he told him. "You ok?"

Sherlock smiled, almost shyly, and nodded. "Thank you John."

"Want to stay? You don't have to go if you don't want to." John felt loath to push the detective out of the door, despite his desperate need for sleep. This felt weird - usually he did this stuff with a partner and they would cuddle afterwards and keep close. He didn't really know what to do with Sherlock.

"No, it's ok," replied Sherlock, "I think I might go and read for a while downstairs. I don't feel ready for sleep yet."

"Right, well, you know where I am if you change your mind" he said, through another jaw cracking yawn. "Goodnight, Sherlock"

John walked to the door and slowly opened it, letting in the light from the hallway and breaking the spell the candle's warm glow had cast. As John walked past, Sherlock caught his hand, and stroked it with his thumb, trying to put into it all the affection and gratitude he wanted to tell his friend he felt, but was unsure how it would be received. John smiled, and Sherlock knew he didn't need to say anything.

When Sherlock had left and John had climbed into bed, blowing out the candle as he went, he couldn't help but reflect that things had changed between them in some way. Last time it had been almost cold and hard - focused on getting a specific result. This evening had been slow and personal. John didn't know where they went after this, but he fell asleep smiling, reliving the gasps he had caused as he'd bitten Sherlock's neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to all those following this story. I'm enjoying writing it and I'll try and keep the updates consistent. Warnings and disclaimers as per the synopsis**

The next day they were both summoned to Scotland Yard to discuss an old case with Lestrade. The DI wanted them to run back through some of the evidence before the accused's trial began - boring stuff that Sherlock usually flat out refused to do unless John cajoled and bribed him. But today he went without a fuss. This was so out of character that John wanted to ask what was wrong, but there didn't seem to be a good opportunity. In the cab on the way there Sherlock was fiddling with his phone and refusing to make eye contact, and once they were in the police station there was neither the time or opportunity to corner him and demand answers. John resolved to get the police work done as quickly as possible so he could get Sherlock somewhere quiet and find out what was bothering him.

It took an interminable amount of time to satisfy all of Lestrade and Donovan's queries and even the mild-mannered doctor was feeling fractious by the end of it. But Sherlock just sat looking down at the case notes on the table and answered everything asked of him in a subdued manner and didn't once object or sneer or say anything derogatory. He didn't even notice the frowns that the officers were sending in his direction, which meant they directed them at John instead, expecting him to translate Sherlock's odd behaviour for them. He shrugged - he didn't know either. Finally they were finished and John dragged Sherlock out and into a taxi home as quickly as he could. He had managed a hushed conversation with Greg just before they left and had promised to text him if there was anything seriously up with the consulting detective. It was just so out of character that they couldn't help but all be concerned.

John didn't attempt conversation in the taxi back to Baker Street. He was lost in his own thoughts, worrying about whether it had been the activities of the previous night which had provoked this subdued state of mind in his friend. Once back at the flat, Sherlock silently removed his coat and scarf and went straight to the sofa to sit, fingers steepled under his chin, as he stared into space. John sighed and did what he always did in times of crisis at 221b - he put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

John kept his silence all the way through making the tea, then sitting across from Sherlock in his chair drinking it. He'd made his friend a cup too, and was gratified that although Sherlock wasn't speaking, he was sufficiently aware of his surroundings that he'd drunk the tea John had placed in front of him. Although he carried on staring straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge John in any way. Finally John had had enough. "Want to tell me what's wrong?" he asked, keeping his voice level.

Sherlock didn't answer, but a barely perceptible flicker of his eyes betrayed the fact he'd heard John and wasn't quite as immune as he appeared. This was good, John could work with this. It wasn't as helpful as actual answers, but it was better than a blank, unreadable face.

"I'm worried about you Sherlock." he continued, "This isn't like you and you know it. I don't want to push you, but I need to know what's bothering you, and if I can help?"

An almost imperceptible shake of the head was the only response he got. This wasn't how John had anticipated the day going when he got up that morning - he had thought the closeness they had shared in his bedroom would leak into daily life and there would be more understanding between them. Instead Sherlock seemed to be slipping away from him.

"Do you want me to leave you alone for a bit? I have some errands to do, I could go out for a couple of hours and give you some peace?" John asked, and was gratified to get a slightly hesitant nod from the detective. It wasn't exactly a conversation, but better than being ignored completely.

With reasonable good grace, the doctor collected his keys and wallet and headed out, telling Sherlock he would bring back some dinner for them both when he returned. Sherlock watched him leave from the corner of his eye, then visibly relaxed when the door closed and he was alone.

Sherlock didn't know what the problem was. He hadn't intended to be so withdrawn from everyone but he had been caught up in his internal thoughts and hadn't really noticed. He wanted to articulate it to John, because it always helped him to talk through his thought process with his friend. But he couldn't - he didn't know where to start. Maybe he needed some quiet time alone to commit the recent events between them to his memory? Maybe instead of less he needed more stimulation? Maybe another evening spent in John's room would help? He shivered in anticipation at the thought... He had spent a long minute that morning inspecting the results of the previous night as he got dressed - the bruises and scratches and slight reddening from the wax. He had enjoyed the secret marks and had deliberately brushed against the tender spots on his neck more than once that morning at the station, revelling in the memory. It had been satisfying to have the little pleasures and pains inflicted on his body - the 'transport' becoming an interest to him for a change rather than a begrudged necessity.

He was curious too about John and what he got out of it. It didn't take a detective to deduce that John was turned on by the situation, and he had definitely blurred the line between the original premise and something more sexual, but he hadn't pushed the boundaries too far. Idly Sherlock wondered when that would change and when John would want more from him. Deep down he was aware that although sex wasn't something he usually spent much time thinking about he wasn't adverse to thinking about John in those terms, particularly if it came in the form of the current games with the associated benefits to Sherlock's mind. Fascinating!

He also pondered on what it would take for John to lose control. His analytical mind couldn't help but wonder what experiments he could attempt to find out the buttons to press to provoke that. And with that to occupy his mind, he settled back on the sofa, relaxed and deep in thought, and waited for John to return.

oOo oOo oOo

When John returned from his errands he was pleased to see Sherlock smile in greeting as he came through the door.

"I got chinese" he called back towards the sofa as he walked into the kitchen, "want some?"

"A little"

John smiled. Acknowledgement _and _food! This was indeed progress. Still, he knew better than to make too much of it and instead dished up two plates, careful to keep Sherlock's portion small, and walked back into the lounge. He passed Sherlock his plate and a fork, and settled back into his chair, turning on the tv and flicking to a quiz show.

They passed a companionable evening together in front of the tv, arguing over the answers to the show. Sherlock either knew them and declared them 'obvious', or didn't have a clue and muttered 'irrelevant', much to John's amusement. John still didn't know what had been up with the detective earlier in the day, but he wisely decided not to press. He figured that if it happened again he'd force the issue, but for now he was just grateful Sherlock had found his way out of it alone and was back to being his usual irascible, irritating self.

Eventually John found himself dozing in the chair and stood up, yawning. "Bed for me, Sherlock" he said as he stretched his back, "G'night"

He was half way up the stairs before he realised he had a Sherlock-shaped shadow. Turning around he regarded his friend with amusement. "Yes?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I wanted to show you something" the detective stated. "Can we go to your room? It won't take long."

John smiled to himself and carried on up the stairs. He didn't know what Sherlock was up to but he was amused and willing to wait and see. Besides, how often did he deny the man anything he wanted anyway? He reached the door to his bedroom, opened it, and beckoned Sherlock in. Sherlock paused in the doorway, undecided.

"What?" asked John

"I just want to show you... I'm not asking for anything tonight." Sherlock clarified, standing in the hallway.

"I understand," acknowledged John, and he went and sat down in the chair he'd sat in the first night, facing the door, and waiting for Sherlock to make his move.

Sherlock entered the room slowly, closing the door behind him. John's room felt like a little haven to him, a place of safety and of changing roles. He didn't have to be anything in here - not the cleverest, not the fastest with an answer, not the one in charge. He had debated doing this in the living room but he'd felt it wasn't quite right - that the bedroom would be better. They had kept everything so far limited to that one space and Sherlock didn't feel the need to expand on that right now.

He stood in the doorway and carefully, politely, asked John to close his eyes. John gave an exaggerated sigh and complied, a slight smile tugging at his lips. Quickly and quietly, Sherlock removed his shirt to leave his chest bare. He walked towards John and stood behind him, close to the back of the chair. He reached forwards and murmured into the doctor's ear, "I thought you might like to see the after effects of your actions last night."

John laughed in response. He had heard the rustle of clothing being removed and felt the movement of Sherlock walking around, and he had a fairly good idea of what he would see when he opened his eyes. But he was enjoying the anticipation so he kept them closed, willing to play along and tease Sherlock (and be teased himself) a little longer.

"Oh?" was his response, "Did I leave a mark on your pristine skin?" he asked innocently.

The response from Sherlock was almost a growl, which made John smile broadly this time. He couldn't resist taking control of the situation. "If you want to show off to me you'll have to do it properly" he told Sherlock, listening to the sound of the younger man's breath quickening at the words. It was so _easy_ to play with him - his wonderful mind just took the simplest of phrases and instantly put pictures to them. John knew Sherlock was racing through multiple scenarios in his mind now and was half way to submission by himself without John having to lift a finger.

"If you want me to inspect you, you should kneel on the floor here," and John motioned with a foot at the space in front of the chair. "Keep your head straight, and put your hands by your sides, so I have a clear view."

Without a word, Sherlock moved gracefully from behind John and into the indicated space. He felt a sudden rush at the thought of kneeling there - it was a vulnerable position and he was under no illusions that John had chosen it for exactly that reason. He carefully lowered himself to the correct position and waited. To his surprise, John didn't immediately open his eyes, and Sherlock stayed as he was for a minute or so, the anticipation building, along with a sense of calmness. He actually rather liked this - looking up at John, not having to move or think, just wait. Kneeling didn't seem so bad now.

Finally John opened his eyes, and looked down at Sherlock, who gazed up at him. He nodded approvingly at the position, and _looked_. Sherlock felt John's eyes raking over every single inch of his skin, noting every single red mark and bruise. He felt himself straighten his back further, resisting the urge to squirm or close his eyes. Idly he wondered if this was how others felt when he analysed them. It was uncomfortably intimate.

John stood and carefully put a hand under Sherlock's chin, gently pushing his head to one side to inspect the love bites he had inflicted in more detail. Taking his hand away from Sherlock's face he carefully ghosted a finger over the marks, his breath catching at the sight. "Stunning." he said admiringly, a touch of awe spilling into his voice. Sherlock felt a warm glow rising from inside. He loved it when John praised him.

John stroked the detective's neck once more, and then sat down on his chair again. "Thank you, pet, I appreciate you offering this. Would you like something in return? A treat?"

That was unexpected! Sherlock hadn't got any further in his ideas than showing John. He hadn't thought about there being something he could have in return. And then, as he thought about it further, he realised he didn't actually want anything - the genuine admiration John had shown was more than enough.

"No thank you, John, I'm ok"

"Sure?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded in affirmation.

John stood and walked across to the bed where Sherlock had left his shirt. Picking it up he went back to standing in front of his friend. Quietly he told him to stand, so Sherlock did. To Sherlock's surprise, John carefully helped him back into his shirt, doing up the buttons on the front slowly while Sherlock stood, feeling that his help wasn't required. John's fingers lingered on the shirt, but never touched the skin below, much to Sherlock's disappointment. When Sherlock was correctly attired again John pushed back the collar to see how close to visible the bite marks on his neck were. With another sigh of pleasure, he righted the collar, smiled at Sherlock, and walked him to the door. Before he opened it he reached up to pull the taller man back towards him, and kissed him on the cheek, then whispered almost without sound in his ear, "thank you".

Sherlock walked away in a daze. He had never expected this little game, less than 10 minutes in total, to have left him feeling so controlled yet so empowered, and wanting more. John had become his new absolute favourite drug _ever._


	4. Chapter 4

After that night there were a string of cases from Scotland Yard which took both men's attention and left little time for developing their relationship further. Even so, Sherlock noticed that neither of them could keep their hands off the other. Nothing significant that anyone else would notice, just little reassuring brushes. The kind of thing they had always done but increased in frequency tenfold.

Sherlock was a surprisingly tactile person with people he trusted. He might not be willing to accept casual contact with strangers or associates, but with his chosen few he was positively cat-like with his cravings for physical interaction. Now he had discovered what John could do to him, he wanted his attention even more than usual, and wasn't afraid to manipulate his good natured friend into focusing on him and him alone, and one of the ways he measured his success was through the little touches.

John was well aware of what was going on. He was far too attuned to Sherlock's personality not to notice when he was actively trying to get John to do something. He pretended not to notice, and carried on doing what Sherlock demanded of him, no matter how ridiculous. He fetched and carried and gave up his phone and laptop without complaint, pandering to Sherlock's every request. And he didn't object when Sherlock curled up with him on the sofa one night, his head leaning on John's shoulder. If Sherlock needed closeness and comfort then John was happy to provide that too. It wasn't as if he didn't enjoy it himself after all.

The crisis point came after The Work finally slowed down and they had a rare Thursday night off from chasing criminals round the streets of London. John was going to the pub with Lestrade and some of the others from NSY, and Sherlock was in the process of having the biggest sulk ever about it. He had been invited but flatly refused to even entertain going. What Sherlock wanted was for John to stay home with him and be impressed at stories of Sherlock's cleverness in deducing the last few cases. He'd tried every manipulation he could think of to get John to stay with him but John would not change his mind. When John came down ready to leave Sherlock had been curled in a ball on the sofa, refusing to even look in John's direction, making little huffing noises of disapproval. John had laughed, told him to get over himself and either come to the pub or amuse himself at home alone, and had left without a backwards glance.

Sherlock flung himself back across the couch dramatically and glared at the door as it closed. That hadn't gone to plan. Time for a new approach.

oOo oOo oOo

_19.05 I require your presence at 221b Baker Street. SH_

_19.07 No you don't JW_

_19.21 We are out of milk. You need to buy milk and come home. SH_

_19.22 If you need milk go to the shop JW_

_19.45 Where is the fire extinguisher? SH_

_19.48 Ignore last text. Found it. SH_

_19.58 Tell Lestrade that the girlfriend in the last case should be questioned again. SH_

_20.00 And the sister. She is hiding something SH_

_20.03 John? Why aren't you answering? SH_

_20.14 Because you are being annoying Sherlock. Either get dressed and join us in the pub or bugger off JW_

_20.15 Is Anderson there? SH_

_20.16 Yes, sorry JW_

_20.16 But you don't have to talk to him. You could just sit with me and Greg. I'll even buy you a drink :-) JW_

_20.17 No SH_

_20.23 I ate something in the fridge I think was off SH_

_20.47 You know where the bathroom is if you feel sick. If I find you comatose when I get home I'll call an ambulance JW_

_20.47 I need my doctor SH_

_20.52 John? I could be dying here SH_

_21.05 No you aren't. You are just sulking because I'm out. Now stop bothering me, I'm busy JW_

_21.06 Bored. SH_

_21.07 bored bored bored bored bored SH_

_21.09 You have to come home now SH_

_21.17 I might have a breakthrough in this experiment. Need your assistance to hold slide SH_

_21.18 John? SH_

_... ..._

_21.49 Please come home SH_

_21.50 If you are going to beg pet you'll have to do better than that JW_

_21.57 [picture message - Sherlock's riding crop in the middle of John's bed]_

_21.57 I miss you. Please, John. SH_

_21.58 In taxi. Be there in 5. You'd better be ready pet, you are walking a fine line here JW_

oOo oOo oOo

If he was being truthful, John would have had to admit that he rather enjoyed all the messages from Sherlock. It was nice to be missed after all, and made a change from the days when the detective failed to even notice he'd left the room. The pub had been fun and he'd enjoyed a couple of pints and banter with the team, and he'd refused to be rushed by Sherlock's childishness. Even the riding crop picture hadn't really swayed him... he'd been saying goodbye to the others as it had arrived. _No need to tell Sherlock that though_, he thought, _let him think I'm that easily manipulated. Could be handy later._

When John got home the flat was quiet and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John decided he wasn't going to mess around looking for him, so he went straight into the bathroom, texting Sherlock as he went

_22.05 I expect you to be kneeling by my bed by the time I get out the shower pet JW_

He didn't wait for an answer.

oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock had been sitting on his bed when John came home. He'd been so eager for company before, but now he was unsure. He might have pushed John a little too far - it was hard to tell by text. He hovered inside the room, undecided as to whether to come out or wait for John to find him. Then he heard the bathroom door close, followed closely by a text alert on his phone. Reading the text Sherlock felt a flash of anticipation, and relief that John appeared to want to play. He'd been having thoughts about John and the riding crop for days and it looked like he was going to get to experience it.

John's showers typically took 8 minutes, so Sherlock knew he had a little time to prepare. He was wearing pyjamas and a robe, which seemed suitable. Thinking about last time, he filled two glasses with water and brought them upstairs with him and put them on the bedside table. He took a look at the bed with its hospital corners, and the incongruous sight of the crop laying in the centre, where Sherlock had left it earlier.

John's room, as always, was sparse, clean and tidy. It was in stark contrast to the rest of the flat and Sherlock rather liked that. He liked that John allowed Sherlock's clutter to invade all the shared spaces without complaint (well, not serious complaint) when his own preferences were clearly so contrasting. Sherlock thought this said a lot about the relationship between John and himself - how John would allow Sherlock to run roughshod over him in every way, except in here where John was in charge.

Sherlock noted with a hint of frisson that the shower had stopped. Time to get himself into position. He smiled slightly and debated where to be... facing the bed? No, facing the door. Kneeling carefully he put his arms to the side as he'd been instructed last time, and kept his head and his gaze straight ahead.

John entered the room wearing a robe, rubbing his hair with a towel.

"Close your eyes" he told Sherlock, with his commanding captain's voice. Sherlock did as he was told and was amused to hear sounds that indicated John was getting changed. John wasn't usually particularly bothered by nudity - the two of them had seen each other in various states of undress over the time they had lived in the flat - it wasn't exactly uncommon when sharing a small space. He smirked, until he felt John come up behind him and murmur in a low voice in his ear, "You don't get to watch me change, pet. You have to earn things like that." And Sherlock felt an unexpected surge of desire to see John undressed and knew it wasn't John being modest but another part of this long and complex dance. He scowled and huffed in frustration. Another thing he now wanted but couldn't have.

John finished changing into his pyjamas and sat on the bed, reaching out for the riding crop Sherlock had left. He ran it through his hands, testing the weight and flexibility. Truth be told he wasn't really experienced with using a crop and he really would prefer to test it in private before using on Sherlock. He was aware of having had a few drinks too - never a good idea when in charge of someone else's wellbeing. So he was going to have to be careful. But he could use it to tease his friend, and provide a different type of experience. John had noted that Sherlock's reaction to control and dominance showed it was almost as effective as the physical elements of their play in keeping his mind clear.

John looked down at Sherlock kneeling at his feet, his eyes closed and a slight smile of anticipation on his lips. _God he's gorgeous_ John thought, suddenly aware of how much he wanted the man now his inhibitions were lowered (thanks, alcohol). And not just wanted in the terms they currently had, but in 'I want to kiss you all over and fuck you until you come undone' kind of way. He shivered, his cock twitching at the image his brain all too readily provided. _Eyes front, Watson. Keep focused - he doesn't want that from you. He wants you to mess with his mind, not his body. So get to it._ With a small sigh, John switched his mind back to the job in hand.

Clothing seemed a good place to start again. John remembered the first time Sherlock had been in his room - the night of the handcuffs and the belt - the detective had found the clothing discrepancy challenging. And given his attitude when John had been dressing, he could work with that. He stood and walked until he was standing in front of the kneeling detective.

"You can open your eyes pet."

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed up at John. He gave the doctor a small smile, hoping that he wasn't in too much trouble over the text messages.

"You and I are going to have a little chat about respecting boundaries," John told him, using the tip of the crop to trace along Sherlock's cheekbone, and then along his jaw. He was amused to notice his friend instinctively leaned in to the touch of the leather. "Take off your robe, and your t-shirt."

Sherlock made a move to stand to remove the robe, and was tutted at by John, the riding crop pushing on his shoulder, encouraging him to stay kneeling. With a sigh, he lowered back down and struggled out of his robe, getting caught up in the belt. The t-shirt was easier, and soon he was bare from the waist of his pyjama trousers up. He looked up at John again, the clothing bunched in his hands, uncertain as to what to do with them now. John took them from him and laid them over the end of the bed, then walked behind Sherlock to his chair and sat down.

"Come here, pet. Don't make the same mistake twice, will you?"

Sherlock scowled, his shoulders dropping, grateful that John was now behind him and couldn't see his face. He guessed John meant he wasn't to stand, and therefore shouldn't walk over. He was expected to crawl! He wasn't doing that. There were limits. And then he felt the light touch of the crop, brushing up and down his spine, tracing along the vertebrae. He shivered. Which did he want more - his dignity, or this touch? _No contest, _he thought smugly as he turned and made his way across the carpet to John.

John watched as Sherlock clearly wrestled with himself over the command then decided he was all-in. He was like a cat, a panther, stalking his prey. His eyes never left John's as he crawled to the chair slowly, hips swaying. It was powerful and predatory and completely and utterly magnetic. Sherlock might be the submissive one, 'innocent', but he definitely knew how to switch it on when he wanted something, and it was very clear that what he wanted right then was John, or at least John's clever ways of making him feel. John's heart skipped a beat at the sight and he fought with himself to keep his reaction under control and out of sight.

John sat back, deliberately slouching slightly, until Sherlock was almost at his feet. He stopped him with a tap on the shoulder with the crop. Sherlock resumed his previous position of kneeling with his back straight, looking at John, eager anticipation showing in his eyes. John frowned absently at him, trying to decide how to play it that night. He thought he'd try and hold on to the irritation from the earlier texts for as long as he could.

"Why did you text me all evening Sherlock? You knew where I was and you knew I wanted a night away from the flat." The leather tip of the crop stroked over Sherlock's shoulders, across his pecs, and down the other side, following a figure of eight pattern along his front. It was agonisingly slow and teasing.

Sherlock thought quickly, racing through possible answers in his head. John would want an answer that was reasonable. But there wasn't really one... "Because I missed you?" he hazarded, thinking that this was a fairly safe response.

"Wrong" John told him, his voice flat and uncompromising.

"I texted you because... I was lonely?"

"Dull. Try harder pet." The crop continued it's tortuous path

"Because we needed milk?"

"Don't even _think _about going down that route"

"Because I wanted you here with me!" Sherlock snapped, his voice raised.

"Half right" agreed John, allowing the crop to tease over Sherlock's nipples in reward for his more honest answer. "But the other reason is because you were acting like a petulant child - sulking because you didn't get your own way."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock hazarded, unable to stop it sounding like a question.

"No you aren't," John told him. "If you were sorry you'd stop doing it. But you won't. Every time you think I might be having fun without you, you do the same thing. So perhaps we need to make sure there are consequences, so next time you think twice before sending 47 texts in one night?"

"Yes John."

"Yes John _what?_" asked John. "Tell me. Full sentences, or I'll stop." He flicked over Sherlock's right nipple with the crop, making it swell and making Sherlock gasp quietly. Then went back to lightly tracing over Sherlock's front with the tip - round and round, over and over, slowly passing over every inch of skin on his front. Testing and teasing, seeing how much Sherlock wanted this.

Sherlock took a breath and tried to compose himself, all too aware of the smooth touch of the leather. He was going to answer correctly this time if it killed him. "Yes John, there should be consequences if I send too many texts to you in an evening."

John smirked. "Good boy," he told the man before him, and rewarded him by leaning forward, grasping a handful of hair in his right hand and tugging it back roughly, causing Sherlock's head to snap back, his eyes looking up at the ceiling. John brought the crop back around and ran it up Sherlock's impossibly long throat, sensuously riding over his adam's apple, and under his chin, before sliding up and to his lips. He traced them slowly, again using the leather tip to tease his full lips, and was gratified when Sherlock's mouth opened slightly in response. He was even more amused when he took the crop away and was rewarded with an involuntary whine from the detective. John turned the whip around and touched the handle against Sherlock's lower lip.

Tugging on the handful of hair again to encourage obedience, John brought his head down close to Sherlock's ear and whispered one word...

"Suck."

John kept his head close, and avoided looking into Sherlock's eyes. Instead he watched his mouth. It opened slightly, and his tongue darted out to press against the end of the handle, hesitantly licking and tasting. Growing in confidence, he gently drew the handle into his mouth and sucked on it, teasing with his tongue so John could see.

"You have such a pretty mouth," John leered at him, enjoying the show, using the hand in his hair to move Sherlock's head around to improve the view. "Such a shame all you've used it for today is to pout."

Sherlock's mind was all over the place. This wasn't pain exactly. It wasn't sex either. It wasn't anything specific that he could identify, and it was bewildering. He couldn't file it in an easy box of physical interaction in his brain. He shouldn't be doing this, teasing with his mouth and tongue, but he wanted to. He wanted to do whatever John told him to do. He was totally aware of John's hand gripping his hair and the constant pressure from it that made the back of his head ache. He cautiously tried to turn his head away and the hand got tighter and pulled him back. With a moan of pleasure at the touch of pain he gave in, sucked harder, his eyes half closed, and let John take charge.

John was watching closely and saw the instant Sherlock surrendered to him. It was completely and utterly intoxicating to have this amazing man under his control. He privately marveled at how easily Sherlock was able to lose himself in this. He would have thought it would have been the opposite, but actually Sherlock managed to get his head in the right space very quickly. Again, there was a sense of awe that he, John Watson, an ordinary man, was being trusted with this gift.

John allowed Sherlock to continue for a minute or so, occasionally tugging on his hair to see the reaction. Finally, John drew the handle out of his mouth and released his hair. Sherlock's eyes remained glazed and he rocked slightly as John's hand left him.

"You sent me 19 text messages this evening. Not one of them was necessary. So I am going to remind you 19 times why you shouldn't do that." He noted that Sherlock sat up straighter in anticipation. "I'm feeling generous so you can decide what I use and where I use it to make that lesson clear."

Sherlock frowned slightly, not understanding the question. So John got up and walked behind him, allowing the tip of the crop to trail over the bare skin in front of him again. He leant down to whisper into Sherlock's ear, the leather tab tracing over his back as he did,

"Would you like me to use this?" and he tapped it against Sherlock's shoulder blade.

"Or perhaps you would like me to remind you with my belt again?" and the crop slid over Sherlock's arse where John had focused his attention that time before.

"Perhaps you'd prefer my hand?" And he dropped the crop and put his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder and snaked his left hand around his throat, gripping lightly. Not enough to restrict, but to emphasis the power and strength he had. Sherlock gasped and tensed slightly, before pushing back into the touch, and John failed to stop the growl issuing from his mouth in response. He was holding on to his sanity here by a thread. Wryly he found himself wishing that Sherlock wasn't quite so responsive to his touch as it made keeping things separate so much harder. What he wanted to do right then was rip off his clothes and rub himself against the kneeling man and tighten his grip and bite the back of his shoulder and neck in a very primal display of ownership.

With a careful breath John released him, got himself back under control and sat himself down to face Sherlock, picking up the crop as he went.

"Well?" One eyebrow raised in question.

Sherlock considered briefly, "The crop please."

John nodded, agreeing. "Where?" His lips twitched in amusement as Sherlock's face fell at the thought of having to articulate his needs so specifically. John waited, enjoying Sherlock's discomfort.

"My, um, backside please John."

"You want me to use this crop on your arse?"

Sherlock's eyes closed briefly in anticipation. "Yes please John."

"And this will remind you not to send me irrelevant text messages? This will make you think twice before disturbing me on a night out?" John kept his face straight, although inside he knew this was not even remotely the case and Sherlock would be just as irritating and demanding as ever as soon as he left the room. _Thank goodness_, John thought. He didn't really want his friend to change.

"Yes John, it will."

"Ok. I suggest you go lay on the bed pet. You don't have to crawl. Do you want me to tie you up or will you be able to control yourself?"

"No, its fine John, I can control myself."

John didn't say anything else as he watched Sherlock move to his feet gracefully and make his way to the bed. They hadn't discussed specifics and John was interested as to how Sherlock would interpret the sparse instructions given.

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He mind was focused on what laid ahead. There wasn't space for other thoughts - the rest of the world had slipped away until it was just here and now and John and his riding crop and touch and words and _sensation._ He turned to face the bed, removed his trousers and laid on his front, his hands gripping the bars of the headrest. Nudity seemed a small price to pay at that moment for the pleasure of feeling the bite of the crop on his skin. He relaxed, closed his eyes and waited.

He didn't have to wait long before he felt the touch of the leather tab stroking his skin again, and an involuntary shiver went through him. John had stroked him from shoulder to knee and it felt amazing. He was so keyed up, he couldn't bear it any longer... "Please, John." He begged, risking opening his eyes and looking up, hands gripping the bars of the headboard tightly.

"Patience," John chided, captain's voice at the forefront again. "You are going to count for me. It is a punishment after all, so I'm not letting you just slip away as I know you like. You'll have to keep your mind focused on me this time."

Sherlock nodded in compliance. And then braced himself.

The first came as a surprise, even though he knew it was coming. The feeling wasn't quite what he expected - it was stingy and centered on the end, rather than the stripe he had felt with the belt the time before. He was so caught up in analysing the feeling and comparing it to other sensations in his mind that he completely forgot to count. Until John pulled his head up roughly using his hair and snarled into his ear "Count pet, or I'll start again" before dropping him back onto the pillow.

"One" Sherlock gasped, a little shocked at the doctor's actions. And then "two" and "three" until he finally made it to nineteen. By then his voice was breaking and he was struggling to keep track of what he was supposed to be doing. His hands never left the railings and his eyes were tightly shut. It worked every time - the pain overtook every other thought and consideration and left him wonderfully, deliciously numb. Even being forced to count hadn't totally stopped that.

John took a breath and put down the riding crop. That had been intense for him as well as Sherlock. He had been careful to temper his strikes, but he was still a little worried it had been too much. He climbed onto the bed and ran his hand over the reddened area. Hmmm. There were definitely going to be some bruises, but no welts or broken skin. That was probably ok.

"Ok pet?" he asked quietly, propping himself up so he was lying next to Sherlock, hand on his lower back.

Sherlock nodded and sighed happily, smiling. He finally released his tightly held grip on the railings and let his hands fall on to the pillow. Sherlock's eyes were still closed and he felt at peace. He wondered if it would be alright to ask for something? Cautiously, he tried.

"John?"

"Yes pet?"

"Could you stroke me some more please? It feels nice." He felt rather than heard John's silent laughter, and then a comforting hand was on his back, lightly running its way down. He sighed again, content.

oOo oOo oOo

John woke in the early hours feeling slightly bemused. He didn't actually remember falling asleep, but he guessed it had been while he was stroking Sherlock's back. That would be Sherlock, his friend, who was currently curled up around John in a very clingy way, in his bed. His hand was clutching on to John's t-shirt, one leg thrown over John's - almost to ensure he couldn't leave without Sherlock realising. _How did that happen? _thought John. Looking down carefully he was relieved to see that the detective had put his pyjamas back on at some point, so there was at least a fabric barrier between them.

Deciding that it was far too early in the morning to be worried about repercussions, and figuring that at least Sherlock was sleeping even if it was draped around him, John snuggled down under the duvet and Sherlock, and went back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - a chapter of little snippets this time, because I was amused at how other people would react to the two of them, and also because they deserve a little fun in between all the hot and heavy stuff ;)**

* * *

**Mycroft**

John was making tea when he heard someone arrive downstairs. A low conversation with Mrs Hudson. Then the sound of footsteps and and the unmistakable tapping of an umbrella on the stairs as the visitor walked up. John shouted from the kitchen "Hi Mycroft, want a cuppa?" as he headed back into the living room to greet him.

Mycroft was looking down at some papers as he opened the door to the flat. He glanced up, paused, his eyes going from Sherlock sitting on the sofa, to John and back again. He placed the papers on the table, raised a single elegant eyebrow and walked straight back out and down the stairs, calling behind him "I _do_ hope you know what you are doing."

* * *

**Tied up**

"_Will _you just hold still" John muttered in frustration as he tried to knot the rope around Sherlock's wrists. He was leaning over him on the bed and Sherlock kept wriggling away and making little squeaky breathless noises. It was endearingly cute, but also irritating as John had been waiting impatiently all week for Sherlock to come knocking and had a lovely plan in his mind for the evening.

"I'm, uh, trying" came the gasping reply from Sherlock, as though he was holding something back.

John looked down, amused. That wasn't a normal response from his friend. What was going on? "What's up pet?"

"Nothing" hissed out between gritted teeth.

"Pet..." John said sternly. "Tell me what's wrong. Or I'll leave you tied up here until you do."

"It..." and then a gasp and in a ridiculously high pitched voice "tickles!" And with that the detective dissolved into a fit of giggles.

John looked down smiling and saw immediately what had caused Sherlock to lose control so spectacularly. As John was working on the knots, the hem of his open shirt had been brushing against the detective's armpit. This was too good to resist! All thoughts of fastening wrists were lost as John pounced on him, tickling without mercy.

The resultant shrieks of mirth from Sherlock and rumbling laughter from John more than made up for the loss of plans that night.

* * *

**Experiments**

Over the weeks and months they tried pretty much everything they could both think of to amuse John and provide pleasurable pain to Sherlock. It had become a bit of a game for them both - seeing who could introduce the most random item successfully. Some had been a revelation, others somewhat less enthusiastically received and quickly relegated to the 'once was enough' pile. But they kept open minds and tried everything. Sherlock was nothing if not eager when it came to experimenting, and John enjoyed the anticipation of opening his bedroom door to see what new thing Sherlock had brought with him to try.

John was pretty sure there was a spreadsheet somewhere cataloguing and rating each implement on a Sherlockian scale of pleasure. _Who would have thought there was so much enjoyment to be had from office supplies? _John mused with a smile, remembering the day Sherlock had raided the stationery cupboard at St Bart's and turned up at John's door with everything from a whippy plastic ruler to rubber bands and thumb tacks. Neither of them had been able to look at the notice board at NSY for weeks afterwards without sniggering.

It amused John to predict where Sherlock's mind would be at. They went through phases depending on the detective's mood. One week it was kitchen implements, another the infamous office supplies. Another time Sherlock had clearly been researching 'traditional' approaches and it was all canes and floggers and a wartenberg pinwheel. Yet another week it was about restraint and Sherlock requested the handcuffs so often that John started opening the door with them already in his hand. One of John's most memorable occasions was when he had embarked on a sensory deprivation experiment. The sight of Sherlock kneeling by his bed, blindfolded with his own scarf, earphones in to cut out sound, quivering with anticipation while he waited for the first touch, would stay with John for a very long time.

The good stuff made it's way into the bottom drawer of John's bedside table, along with the handcuffs, a coil of rope and Sherlock's riding crop. But Sherlock's absolute favourite, the thing he asked for most often (when allowed a choice), was John's worn leather belt. There was something incredibly satisfying for both of them about the feel of the soft leather and the sound as it struck Sherlock's skin.

* * *

**Lestrade**

Greg Lestrade was about to walk into his office when he caught sight of them standing in there alone through the window. He held back for a moment, intrigued at what was clearly a private moment. Sherlock and John were a little too close together, and Sherlock was holding out his arms while John was rubbing his thumbs over Sherlock's outstretched wrists, in an almost soothing way. That was odd enough, but then Greg caught sight of their faces. They were gazing into each other's eyes, and there was something different about the dynamic, Greg thought. John was standing straight, and had a quizzical expression on his face. Sherlock looked, well, contrite. He didn't think that was an expression Sherlock was even capable of.

Greg opened the door to his office deliberately loudly, and watched with amusement as they quickly pulled apart, both taking half a step back. He didn't say anything, but he observed them carefully over the course of the day. Something had definitely changed. It was subtle, but once he knew to look, really quite obvious. Like moths and a flame, they danced around each other, neither seeming willing to let the other out of their sight. He'd always been one of the ones who rubbished the office gossip about the two of them being more than just flatmates. _I might just have to reconsider that_, he thought. He paid particular attention to Sherlock's wrists, and glimpsed some faint marks on them when the detective had thrown his arms around in one of his dramatic gestures. _That looks like... a rope burn?!_ Greg's mind helpfully supplied. _Surely not! John Watson is indeed a dark horse_, he thought, with amused respect.

It was funny, he thought later, when he was writing up the case notes and reflecting on the day. He could have sworn when he opened the door earlier he'd heard John call Sherlock 'pet'...

* * *

**Living Room**

Sherlock was supposedly looking through his microscope at the samples in front of him. Actually he was eyeing his flatmate surreptitiously. John was sitting reading the paper in his chair by the fire, and seemed oblivious to the attention. Sherlock wanted to play, but was hindered by John's decision to sit in the living room. How was he supposed to knock on John's door and be granted entry if John wasn't there? He could just talk to John and ask for it, but that didn't fit their current approach, where Sherlock arrived and John told him what to do without questioning his reason for being there. How else could Sherlock instigate this?

On an impulsive whim Sherlock stood, walked gracefully over to John's chair and knelt in front of it, facing John. His back was straight, his backside resting lightly on his feet, and his hands were held loosely in his lap, his head upright as he watched John, hoping this position would lead to further instruction. He waited. John continued to read the paper, his expression neutral.

Sherlock attempted to be patient - tried to keep still and quiet in the hopes this would please John enough to progress to more. He managed 14 seconds before fidgeting as a thought flew across his mind around his latest experiment. Huffing he tried again. This time 17 seconds before he couldn't help but move. He knew not to talk - it had been made clear to him through repeated punished infractions in John's room that he must not speak until given permission, and he very much wanted John to consider this moment right now as part of John's rules, not normal living room interactions. He frowned. Closing his eyes, he centered himself and straightened until he felt more at ease and able to hold his position. This time he managed a whole 23 seconds before his mind raced and he felt an involuntary twitch.

It was endlessly frustrating to not be in control of his transport as he wanted, and he knew it was because his busy brain just wouldn't keep quiet and allow him this. With a moan of disappointment he made a move to get to his feet, knowing he had failed. John stilled him with a hand on his shoulder, put the paper down and looked at him questioningly. Sherlock looked down at the floor and in a dejected whisper told him, "I'm sorry John, I wanted to do this but I can't."

John looked at him warmly and said, "I'll help you."

He reached across and put the newspaper on the table, then moved to sit on the edge of the chair, his toes just touching Sherlock's knees on the floor. Taking Sherlock's hands, the doctor put them on his thighs, then covered them with his own hands. In this position John's eyes were only an inch or so higher than Sherlock's, and their gaze automatically caught.

Sherlock's mind stilled momentarily, then focused on John through all the contact points. He could just sense the toes inside the shoes nudging his knees. Feel the warmth of John's thighs under his hands. Breath in John's unique scent - tea, wool, gun oil, cardamon, washing powder; their faces close. See John's eyes looking deeply into his own, and the whirls of colour in his irises, the dilation and constriction of his pupils. His hearing focused on the sound of their joint breathing, a small part of his brain noticing that his own breath was involuntarily slowing to match John's steady pace.

He leaned into it all, using all his senses to concentrate on John and only John. Slowly and surely his mind obeyed him and the jumble of other ideas and visions and thoughts slipped away. Soon it was just John - touch, smell, taste, hear, see. John.

Time passed. Eventually John broke the silence. "What else do you need pet?" he asked quietly, his voice jarring in the peace.

Sherlock remained still, forcing himself to think around the all-encompassing _John_ in his mind. "Nothing..." he finally replied. Because for today, this was enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N - warnings as per synopsis, plus a bit of non-cons in this chapter.**

* * *

John raced through the darkened alley chasing after Sherlock, who was fast disappearing into the distance on his impossibly long legs. _I really need to get back to the gym_, he thought panting, trying to find yet another gear in his sprint as he watched his rapidly disappearing flatmate with irritation. He thought afterwards that it was the combination of his gasping breath and the orange glow reflecting from the streetlights into the puddles that made him miss the signs until it was too late. The first thing he was aware of was the burst of pain from the back of his head as something heavy smashed down. He fell to the ground, stunned. He didn't see his attacker. As John succumbed to the inevitable darkness of unconsciousness, his last thoughts were of resignation that it looked like he was going to be kidnapped yet again, and annoyance that Sherlock had run off without backup _yet again_ leaving him in this mess.

oOo

Some time later, he woke with a start. Carefully stilling himself he took stock of the situation, hoping to do so before his captors realised he had woken. Tied to a chair... _will need to see how well in a moment_. A glow behind his eyes... _so there are lights on or have been unconscious for far too long and it is daylight_. A dustiness to the air... _indoors then._ Voices in the distance... _More than one captor. Possibly three. Maybe four? _

With a silent sigh John resigned himself to opening his eyes and risking being seen to be awake in order to get more information. He opened his eyes narrowly, cautiously. He couldn't see anyone near him - couldn't sense any movement from behind him either. Carefully he opened his eyes fully and looked around as much as possible without moving his head.

The chair was wooden, flimsy, and he was tied to it with a length of rope. Good start. He flexed his wrists and discovered to his pleasure that the ties weren't especially tight or binding. _Amateurs_, he thought derisively. He could probably get himself out of bindings, and if not he could definitely smash the chair and escape that way. That reassurance complete he switched his attention to the room and the people in it.

Glancing around the room with his eyes, John was able to confirm the light was indeed artificial - no windows though so no idea if night or day. He appeared to be in a disused factory. _Probably textiles_, he considered, thanking Sherlock silently for teaching him how to observe in situations like this, and the Army for teaching him how to keep calm. And how to fight his way out, if it came to that.

Lastly he focused on the distant voices, trying to see the men and ascertain how many, what they were armed with, and what they intended to do with him now they had him. Nothing obvious, so with a resigned sigh at the number of times he'd had to do this since meeting Sherlock, he set about rescuing himself.

oOo

By the time Sherlock, Lestrade, and half the Metropolitan Police Force arrived John was walking out of the factory.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, running over to him. "I was -"

"You took your time." He commented coldly to Lestrade, blanking Sherlock completely. "The men you are looking for are in the store room on the first floor. They won't be causing any problems."

"Dead?" Asked Lestrade in surprise, a little perplexed by both John's appearance outside when he was all ready to go in guns-blazing, and his attitude to Sherlock.

"Nah, I left them unconscious and tied up. They were incompetent, not deadly."

Sherlock hovered, for once silent, horribly aware that John was very, _very_ angry with him, and all too aware of why that would be. After the last time Sherlock had hared off after a criminal without backup and without John by his side (resulting in a cracked rib for Sherlock and yet another near-death encounter) John had made him promise to never do it again. He had been very clear of the likely consequences if Sherlock did... and for John to have been the one who suffered because of Sherlock's thoughtlessness this time... Even Sherlock knew this went beyond 'a bit not good' into 'very not good at all'.

John stomped off towards the waiting police cars, Sherlock trailing in his wake. Sherlock watched as Donovan opened her mouth to say something to John as he came past her, saw the look in his eyes, and backed off instantly. Even she wasn't stupid enough to go head to head with John right now.

Sherlock cautiously put a hand on John's shoulder. In retrospect, he thought afterwards, that wasn't the best idea he'd ever had. It was John's bad shoulder and he'd been tied up, so the detective could tell a milisecond after he'd touched it that it was sore and the muscles were spasming. With a flinch at the touch, John swung around, his fists clenched and his eyes furious. Sherlock, shocked, took a step back.

"Are you hurt?" John asked, through gritted teeth.

Sherlock shook his head, "No, John, I-"

"I can't talk to you right now. I'm too angry with you. You need to leave me alone - go home and I'll be back later." John managed to say in a very quiet voice, trying consciously to relax his battle stance.

Sherlock winced at the tone - the low volume saying far more eloquently than a shout would have exactly how John was feeling. He quickly ran through all the possible scenarios in his head, and concluded that for once staying silent and doing as John told him would indeed be the best course of action. So he nodded, walked over to Lestrade and spoke to him briefly, before heading away from the crime scene without a backwards glance. John watched him go and sighed with relief once he was out of sight.

"What was all that about?" asked Lestrade, who had wandered over to him in the meantime.

"Oh, you know Sherlock. Can't think of anyone but himself." Muttered John grimly, "I told him the other week when he ran off after some suspect without me or you guys to back him up that it was the very last time I was doing it. I don't think he understands why I'm angry," John confessed, "I don't think he gets that it is because every time he does it I'm worried this will be the time his luck finally runs out and he won't make it back alive."

"It's a good job he has you watching his back," Greg comforted, "He doesn't mean it personally, you know? He just forgets everything when the chase is on."

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't make me feel any better about being kidnapped again though." And with that, John smiled wryly at Lestrade and excused himself to get checked out at the ambulance before making his police statement.

oOo

It was some hours before John made it back to Baker Street. His head was pounding thanks to the slight concussion from being hit earlier, and he was tired, thirsty and hungry. When he opened the door to the flat he was relieved it was quiet, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He went straight to the kitchen for painkillers and tea, opening the fridge to see if there was anything that could be conceivably be eaten for dinner in there. When John saw what was in the fridge he swore colourfully, slammed the door shut, found the menu for the Thai place that did deliveries until late and phoned through an order. Deciding that today was beyond the healing qualities of a cup of tea he switched off the kettle and instead found the bottle of whisky he'd be saving and poured himself a large glass.

He'd started the second glass when the takeaway arrived. By the time he'd finished eating, and had settled to read the paper he was on his third. Finally he felt the tension start to ebb away and he was again able to breath.

Sherlock meanwhile, sat in his room. He heard John come in and the banging around the kitchen. He had winced at the profanities after the fridge was opened, knowing that the partially decomposed foot that was on the middle shelf was probably to blame. He had sat silently through the delivery and eating of the Thai food, the clink of the bottle against glass as John refilled his drink. He heard the rustle of the newspaper and John easing himself into his comfortable chair and wondered if now was the time to come out, or if he should wait until morning.

The trouble was that now the case was closed he was really quite hungry, and the curry John has ordered smelt very enticing. He hadn't eaten in a couple of days and this was a bit of a catch-22 situation. John was angry with him and didn't want to see him, but John was also angry with him when he didn't eat. Usually John's anger was of little concern - Sherlock always did what he wanted regardless of the consequences. Today though he held back. John's reaction today had seemed out of synch with the seriousness of the situation. It wasn't the first time he'd run off ahead, or the first time John had been captured or hurt. It wasn't unusual at all. So what made this time different? How could he fix it? Frowning, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes as he processed all the data.

oOo

It was an hour or so later that Sherlock opened his eyes, his analysis complete. With a start he got up off the bed and opened the door to the living room. John was sitting in his chair, glass in hand, and he looked up when Sherlock burst into the room.

"So..." John drawled, "The great Sherlock Holmes has decided to make an appearance. Lucky me."

Sherlock looked at him with a moment's confusion before he deduced this was the fourth, no fifth, glass of whisky - _John was drunk_ - and then concern - _John was drunk and still angry at him_. Dismissing this as irrelevant, he proceeded to pace in front of John's chair and monologue to the doctor about how he had been right earlier to go after the suspects alone and how he had been perfectly safe the whole time and how John was completely incorrect to be considering this a bad thing.

John said nothing. He just sat back in his chair and watched, and carried on drinking.

Eventually Sherlock finished and he headed into the kitchen to find food, satisfied that everything was now fixed and things could go back to normal. He failed to notice the way the doctor's eyes had narrowed as he had talked, and how the hand that shook occasionally was now ominously steady. He failed to notice any one of the many signals that were screaming out DANGER because Sherlock was supremely confident that his explanation had been reasonable and rational and that John would of course forgive him.

So when John pushed him hard against the fridge, one arm suddenly pinned too tightly behind his back, it was something of a shock.

"Don't move," hissed John in his ear, pressed up against him, "and definitely don't speak. I don't want to hear another word from you."

Sherlock briefly considered struggling then discounted it. John was stronger than him and had him at a disadvantage. So he ceded to John's control, resolving to escape at a more opportune moment. John pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and pushed Sherlock into it.

"You have no idea, do you?" John told him, leaning over the chair to rest his hands on the table behind, so far into Sherlock's personal space that the detective actually tried to lean back out of his way rather than hold his ground. "You think you're a genius, but you have absolutely no clue whatsoever."

"You think that just because you are cleverer than everyone else, cleverer than _me, _it gives you the right to do what you want. But it doesn't. You were stupid today." John got closer; Sherlock could feel John's breath on his face as he looked into his eyes, not daring to break eye contact. "Stupid." he shouted, slamming his hands down again on the table. Sherlock flinched.

"How do I get you to understand?" John mused, his left hand moving from the table to stroking Sherlock's face. Sherlock struggled to hold his nerve and not portray his discomfort on his face at this unwelcome touch. John's fingers traced his jawline, then brushed through his hair, before he went back to leaning on the table with both hands.

"I had just about calmed down, you know?" he said almost conversationally, "I'd reasoned with myself that it was _just Sherlock being Sherlock_. That you meant no harm, that you didn't _intentionally_ leave me to get bashed on the head. But then you had to come back in here and lecture me on all your theories and self justification. And it is all bollocks, Sherlock. Complete and utter bollocks. You don't care whether it was the _right _thing to do or the _best_ thing to do. All you care about is that it is what you _wanted_ to do. And the rest of us can go hang."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, and quick as a flash John's hand was over it, gripping tightly, cutting off not only his words but also his oxygen. He stilled, but John didn't let go. His oxygen ran out and involuntarily he struggled, panic in his eyes as he tried to catch a breath. Still John held on, until Sherlock felt light headed and his vision started to tunnel. Just when he thought he might pass out, John released him and Sherlock was able to draw a gasping breath.

"I told you I didn't want to hear you." John said calmly, as if this was a normal conversation about the weather.

Sherlock was in turmoil as he continued to gasp and draw in desperately needed oxygen. Here was John - lovely, friend John. John who saved him and entertained him and helped with The Work. Who let him sleep curled up with him in John's bed when he wanted to, and who was his best friend. That wasn't the man in front of him now, casually threatening him. This was the darkness Sherlock had glimpsed in the past and wondered at - the one he had idly considered unleashing. He would question this no more - this darkness was hard and uncontrolled and everything his doctor wasn't.

John started to speak again, his voice low and menacing. "I want you to tell me what I have to do to get you to listen to me. To do as you are told. I want to know how I can hammer home to you in that massive brain of yours so you don't _delete_ and you don't _forget_ that in this I. Am. To. Be. Obeyed. I don't ask much really. I don't tell you to stop or to avoid danger. All I have asked for is that you wait for backup. For you to think before you leap. You could have been killed!"

Sherlock watched with surprise as John's hands moved off the table, giving him back some space, and then with dawning dismay as the doctor reached down to unbuckle his belt. With a start Sherlock realised this was his chance to move, so he leapt to his feet and quickly tried to dodge around John to get out of the kitchen. But he wasn't fast enough and it was with a sinking feeling of impending doom that he was dragged back and thrown across the table on his front. His t-shirt was pulled over his head, leaving his back exposed.

John pinned him down with one hand, removing his belt with the other.

"You wanted to know what I am like when I'm angry? Well, congratulations, you win. I'm angry. You get to see it." and Sherlock's hopes of a quick escape fell further when John leant back down and pushed him hard into the table.

"Tell me you are sorry."

Sherlock didn't dare speak.

John drew back, and struck Sherlock with the belt, in time with his repeated question, "Tell -whack- me -whack- you -whack- are -whack- sorry -whack"

"Sorry! I'm sorry," he gasped, his back stinging.

"How sorry?" Another 4 blows

"Very!" Sherlock's voice was unnaturally high as he struggled to control himself, speaking quickly in the hopes of appeasing John, "I'm very sorry I left you out there. I'm sorry I didn't wait for backup."

"Not good enough." and the blows continued.

Sherlock started babbling, trying to find the right combination of words to appease John and make him stop. But nothing he said was making a difference. It was like John had stopped listening. Eventually he fell silent, unable to talk around the cries that burst from his throat as the tears fell from his eyes.

Blow after blow, endless pain. He couldn't take it. He needed it to stop - this wasn't a game any more, or even a punishment for wrongdoing. He wasn't feeling pleasure - just enduring hurt. He struggled, tried again to get away, but John was too strong.

"John," he pleaded, sobbing. "Stop, please. You have to stop, I can't take any more. Please. Stop."

And still the blows rained down, until Sherlock lost feeling, every part of his body numb. He continued to gasp and cry at each one, but his mind was switched off. A tiny part of his brain, the bit that was still functioning, told him he had to get John to stop. That this wasn't consensual any more, if it ever had been that night. That this wasn't just about the physical but also his sanity - that he needed to stop John before they crossed further into unforgivable territory. There was a word that could stop it all - he had to remember the word...

"Red!" Sherlock cried, remembering at last how to make it all end. "Red!"

Still John continued, oblivious.

"Red" Sherlock whispered defeatedly, the tears continuing to pour down his face, "Please John, red, stop, please, stop."

To the detective's surprise he did. He opened his eyes to the sight of John dropping the belt - horror in the doctor's eyes as reality crashed in and he saw what he had done, saw the skin covered in welts and bruises, saw Sherlock's tear stained face.

"Sherlock, oh god, what have I done? I'm sorry, I..." he faltered, his voice cracking. With a sob, he ran out of the room, up the stairs and into his own bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

_Sorry! John being drunk-stupid and cruel is so hard! But I promise I'll get them back on track soon._

_As always, reviews and comments are much appreciated._


	7. Chapter 7

Very little sleep was had at 221b Baker Street that night. Two men sat in their separate bedrooms. The very best of friends, colleagues, confidants. One wracked with guilt and remorse, the other with pain and incomprehension. Both impossibly sad. Two men who at that moment wanted nothing more than to comfort the other, but a yawning impenetrable gulf stood between them. Souls were searched, motivations questioned, decisions made.

At dawn Sherlock knocked on John's bedroom door, then opened it and walked in without waiting for an answer. He stopped by the bed and John stared up from his position miserably huddled under the covers, surprised to see him. Sherlock held out a large glass of water and some paracetamol.

"Take these," he said coldly, "then get your first aid kit."

John took the water and painkillers gratefully. His head was throbbing from the triple pressures of the previous evening - concussion, hangover and indescribable guilt. Sherlock had walked back out and down the stairs. John reluctantly followed him, dreading the conversation that he knew was ahead.

oOo

It was funny, Sherlock had thought as he'd carefully made his way to his bedroom after John had run away from the kitchen that night. Given their track record he had always assumed it would be him that would do the deed that crossed the line and caused their friendship to reach such a crisis. Not once did it occur to him that John might lose his control so spectacularly. John was the forgiver, Sherlock was the one who stretched boundaries to breaking point.

He had hissed in pain as he'd touched his back gingerly, inspecting it in the mirror. There were some nasty welts, and a lot of bruising. Far more than any consensual session had ever caused. It wasn't just the physical elements - he had been scared of John. Genuinely scared. This he hated more than anything else. The rest was just transport, as he said all too often when he got hurt at a crime scene or through an accident with an experiment, and would heal with time. But never had he felt so helpless, so vulnerable. For it to have been John that caused it was almost unforgivable. Almost.

Given time and space, Sherlock was willing to concede that John probably had a point earlier in the evening about Sherlock's lack of thought. And if he replayed the 'conversation' they'd had, John's biggest issue had been Sherlock putting himself into danger. So. Right sentiment, totally wrong way of expressing it.

Could he have done things differently? Could Sherlock have acted differently and stopped it from happening? Was it his fault? _No, never. _Sherlock thought, _no matter what the circumstances, John would never be justified in what he did. _Sherlock wasn't some downtrodden domestic abuse victim, convinced it was their own doing - he knew exactly who was to blame for his bruises, and it wasn't him.

Had John thought it was ok? That Sherlock was playing along? Had it been a misunderstanding around games versus reality? Sherlock wanted that to be true with a passion. If it had been a misunderstanding then it could be fixed, new rules about clarity put in place, and they could carry on. But he knew he was trying to fool himself. They had never progressed to any sort of role-play of non-consent where John overpowered him. John always made sure Sherlock knew what was coming before they started, so he had the opportunity to say no. John had never pushed him to a point where he had safe-worded. And John, in his right mind, would _never, ever_ have continued once Sherlock had said it.

The question came as to what to do next. Did he want John to continue to live with him, be part of his life? Would he be able to trust John again?

In the end he had lay down on the bed on his front, unable to find a position to sit that didn't make him wince. He analysed the options until the sun came up, going over the possibilities and likely outcomes in his mind. Until finally he nodded to himself and got out of bed. He had made a decision.

oOo

Sherlock sat straddling a kitchen chair, his arms resting on the back, his head bowed and his eyes closed. His torso was bare and John could see the mess he had made of Sherlock's back. He stood in the doorway, miserably charting and assessing the trauma.

"You should clean them," Sherlock prompted in his deep baritone. "Like you did that first night when this all started, the night you found me cutting myself in the bathroom."

John visibly paled in memory of that night, and also at the thought of having to fix the damage he had caused. "I can't. I can't touch you, after what I did to you. I don't know how you can even bear to be in the same room as me right now," self-loathing thickening his voice. "I'll call someone to help... another doctor...I'll explain..."

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed his stare on John. "Oh, you _will_ touch me. You will tend to every single one of my injuries. You will see them all, feel them all, and know that you caused them; that the pain I feel right now is down to you and you alone. You will do this for me now in the cold light of day because I am telling you to, so you never _ever _forget or sugar coat this or pretend it wasn't as bad as it is."

John went to the kitchen to get a bowl of hot water and then sat behind Sherlock. He put his hand out, then pulled back, unsure. He steeled himself and reached out with the wet cloth to begin. Every single touch was a punishment. Every time he made Sherlock flinch or draw in his breath was another level of torture. He was as careful as he could be, as compassionate as he had ever been, as he cleaned, disinfected and bandaged. And he did what Sherlock had asked of him - he saw every single mark, touched every bruise, and burned each intimate detail onto his brain. He knew he would be having nightmares about this that would rival the Afghanistan ones in their intensity, but still he continued. This was his own personal hell to live through and it was nothing more than he deserved.

Finally he was finished and the injuries dealt with as best as he could. He got up and went to the kitchen, bringing out water and some painkillers.

"They won't get rid of it completely," he said in a small voice, "but they will help lessen the pain and reduce the inflammation."

Sherlock took them without a word. He turned round in the chair to face the other man and leant forward until his eyes were level with John's, forcing him to maintain eye contact. Searching his eyes and face for clues as to how the doctor felt, Sherlock spoke quietly and with utter sincerity, "I will forgive you the once. But never twice. If you ever lay a hand on me in anger in this way again I will inform Mycroft and he will make it so you never existed."

John knew he meant every word, and he was grateful for it. There could never be another night like the last one. He nodded miserably.

oOo

John had been so angry with Sherlock that night he could almost taste it. His rage had been a white-hot buzz in his mind, slowly simmering away. Then Sherlock had come in with all his ridiculous justifications for putting his life on the line, and the buzz had become a roar. His only thought had been to get through to Sherlock how serious it was that he took responsibility for his own safety. Somehow in his alcohol fueled fury the best way to do this had been through intimidation. Pinning him against the fridge to scare him a little had seemed the perfect idea.

Things got blurry after that. He remembered taking his belt off...dragging Sherlock back to the table when he tried to get away...making the first strike and pushing Sherlock to say sorry... then nothing... until he was looking down at Sherlock in horror as he begged John to stop through his tears, his voice desperate. It had been clear Sherlock had been begging for some time, and had given up hope that John would listen.

John had never been so ashamed of himself in his life.

oOo

"I'll go pack," John ventured.

"Why?" Sherlock frowned.

"So I can leave. I'll stay with Harry or something until I can get another flat."

"Again, why?" A touch of irritation crept into Sherlock's voice at having to repeat himself.

"I thought... you wouldn't want me here any more." John told him, confused.

In his mind this wasn't even a question - he had assumed that of course Sherlock would want him to move out. Even his comment about forgiveness surely just meant he wouldn't have John 'removed' by Mycroft but that John could expect to remove himself from Sherlock's life by the end of the day. He should have left last night really, but he hadn't been able to bear to go while Sherlock was hurt until he knew if he was okay. Cowardly to put his own needs above Sherlock's, but John couldn't help it.

"You are not leaving," Sherlock told him, dismissively. "I told you I forgive you. That's the end of it. I like living with you, and I do not wish to be left dealing with Anderson's incompetence in forensics at crime scenes on top of everything else right now."

oOo

Time passed. The bruises and welts on Sherlock's back healed. John stayed living at Baker Street and assisting the detective when required, and working at the surgery when he could. They both pretended things were alright and nothing had changed. Except... it was an uneasy status quo. John still made Sherlock tea, but stopped making him eat. He would ask politely, but wouldn't force the issue, as if afraid that even a minor squabble would escalate into danger. Sherlock's protective bubble of personal space from the world in general grew by a few inches, which made John sad as he knew it was because of him. John was fastidious about avoiding all accidental touches, which made Sherlock forlorn because he missed them.

oOo

The first night that Sherlock knocked on John's door after the night of the whisky, John said no. He said it nicely, but firmly, and closed the door on Sherlock.

The second night, some days later, he looked saddened, but still firm in his refusal. Sherlock was frustrated - he didn't understand what the problem was. He needed this release and he wanted John to provide it like he had done before. He knew John wouldn't exceed the boundaries - why didn't John? It was logical - John had far too much to lose to do that. Besides the situation was different - he was there asking, John was sober, the bedroom was their private sanctuary of pleasure. He pushed John for an explanation and was disappointed when the doctor could only shake his head and repeat his gentle refusal.

The third time Sherlock didn't bother knocking.

John had bid the detective goodnight and had headed upstairs to complete his evening routine before getting into bed. When he came out of the bathroom he was somewhat dismayed to see his bedroom door open, and Sherlock in his room. Not only in his room, but kneeling by his bed, his eyes looking up at John expectantly as he stood in the doorway. With a sigh he came into the room, shutting the door behind him, and sat down on the chair. Sherlock stood in a ridiculously graceful way for someone so tall and lanky, and crossed the room to kneel again, this time in front of John's chair.

John looked down at the man in front of him. Unusually he was fully dressed - he tended to turn up in John's room in his pyjamas. Today he was still wearing his suit trousers and a shirt with rolled up sleeves. He looked slightly smug, John guessed at having got him to participate this much.

"What do you need, pet?" he asked in a tired voice, sure this was all a very bad idea but with no clue of how to move forward without going through with it. Sherlock was so single-minded when he got an idea and would continue doggedly until he got what he wanted. John could only hope that Sherlock would find it intolerable too and they could agree to never do this again. After closing his eyes briefly in defeat he reached out to stroke Sherlock's hair, making sure to maintain eye contact. If there was even a hint of worry or distaste in Sherlock's face he would stop.

"I need..." Sherlock stalled. He found himself unsure now of what he wanted - truth be told he hadn't expected to get this far. But now John was playing along he found his mind racing through all the exciting possibilities. "Your hands." He said decisively. "I want you to use your hands to help me let go. Get my mind to shut off for a bit like you've done before."

Hands were safe. Hands would mean that John would have to touch him, and couldn't forget it was Sherlock he was doing this to. Hands were not the belt.

"Alright," agreed John, cautiously. "How?"

Sherlock's heart sang out at the options. He thought of all the things they had done and what had made him feel the best. He recalled the feel of John's hands on every part of his body. He remembered every position they had been in and those he had wondered about but never tried. He wanted closeness - to feel John's body against his - to feel protected by it. He wanted the buzz of the pleasure-pain and he also wanted the connection to John that he had lost.

With a shy smile he asked John for what he wanted.

"Really?" John queried, surprised by the request. "We've not done that before? Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded eagerly.

"Well..." said John, dubiously, "I guess that would be okay. We can try it at least," he caveated. "But I won't be able to see your face. You have to tell me the second that it becomes not good - the very second, you understand? If you don't promise me this then I can't do it."

"I promise," agreed Sherlock readily, happy to have got his own way.

"Come over here then..." John beckoned him over.

Sherlock stood, and with another shy smile undid his trousers. It quickly turned into a grin at the look on John's face, clearly not expecting this.

"Not nude" John clarified quickly. "I'm not having you bent over my knee naked. Not today, anyway." He even managed a shaky laugh at that thought, although he was still dreading what was ahead. He didn't need this to be any more difficult than it already was. He wanted to just get this over with and get Sherlock to see this couldn't happen any more and then they could go back to being friends and Sherlock would have to find someone else to help him.

"Boxers?" queried Sherlock

John nodded. He knew why Sherlock wanted to remove his clothes - he'd told John before how he had assessed the effectiveness of different techniques against different barriers, and he found skin-to-skin contact most enjoyable.

Sherlock folded his trousers neatly and put them on the bed. He undid his shirt, leaving it on, covering his back, both in unspoken agreement on this - far easier to move past the last time when not confronted with the fading physical scars, or the touch of another person against that skin. He stood in front of John, eager and waiting.

John frowned slightly, weighing up options in his mind. He tugged Sherlock's hand, moving him to his left side and then gently pulled him down over his lap. He paused, feeling somewhat daft at having a grown man bent over him awaiting a spanking. But Sherlock was clearly enjoying it, and it was Sherlock's enjoyment that was priority. He put his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder lightly, hoping to detect any hint of tension as soon as it arose. He rubbed his left hand over his friend's thighs. With gritted teeth he summoned up the courage to strike.

*smack*

John's hand connected with the firm flesh on the back of Sherlock's thigh. He flinched at the sound, although he had held back considerably, so the only effect was a very slight pink flush to the skin.

"John..." Sherlock drawled from down around his ankles. "You will really have to do better than that."

John tried again, two quick spanks in succession, one to each thigh. Then rubbed the area he had struck.

Sherlock hissed in disappointment - this wasn't working. He didn't feel anything yet. He needed more. So he grabbed the leg in front of him, gripping hard. "You have to do this, John. You promised me, you said you would do what I wanted."

To Sherlock's surprise he felt John quivering underneath him. He was about to look up when John's hand on his shoulder stilled him. He heard John gulping and trying to steady his breathing, and realised with horror that John was crying. He had misjudged this terribly. This was so not good it was unreal. But they were committed now. Sherlock didn't know what to do other than follow through.

"Again." Said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "Again, damn you."

John complied, though tears pouring down his cheeks. "Please. Let me stop. I can't do this any more."

"No! I need this. You have to do this for me." Sherlock begged.

"How many more?"

"Eight. Give me eight more then we can stop."

John took a deep breath, trying to hold on to himself so he could give Sherlock what he wanted and needed. "Count with me, pet?"

Sherlock gripped his ankle and nodded. So they counted together. John didn't hold back any more and Sherlock felt the world slipping away as the thoughts in his mind stilled, focused only on the feel of John beneath him and above him, and the slow steady count as the strikes built up.

At eight they both let go, gasping with the emotional intensity of it all. Hardly aware of what he was doing Sherlock crawled back up onto the chair to sit on John's lap, curling up around him in a hug. John clung to him, shaken and drained by the events of the evening. For once Sherlock was the stronger, the one who wasn't wrung out by the session. So he did what John had done for him so many times. He held him, stroked him, brushed the tears from his face, made soothing noises in his ear.

He kissed him too, little chaste kisses on his cheek to kiss away the tears, like those John bequeathed him when he needed them. He kissed the corner of John's mouth. Then, feeling brave he kissed John's lips, wanting him to be assured Sherlock was alright, and then he kissed it again because it had felt good the first time. And then John was kissing him back, just a little, and it was salty from the tears but oh so sweet, and the kisses said everything they hadn't dared say to each other's faces _I'm so sorry I hurt you - I know, I understand - I will never do it again - I missed this, missed you - forgive me - I forgive you._

They stopped, both slightly bemused at the direction things had gone and the heightened emotions of the evening. But John wasn't crying any more, and Sherlock wondered curiously whether there were other ways that clever, _clever_ John could help distract him from the world. He rested his head against John's shoulder, his eyes closed, his fingers playing with the buttons on John's shirt.

"Can I sleep in here with you tonight?" he asked sleepily, sated.

John gripped him tighter, his lips brushing against Sherlock's hair, and sighed. "I'd like that, very much."

* * *

_A/N - as always, all reviews and comments are gratefully received._


	8. Chapter 8

John woke to find Sherlock spooning him and snoring softly in his ear, his hand clutched around John's front. It was nice, and he lay there for a while just enjoying the intimacy and the pleasure of being reconciled with his best friend. He had missed Sherlock so much in recent weeks. He hadn't realised how much closer they had become since embarking on all the D/s games until it had imploded. It wasn't the sadism he'd missed though, it was Sherlock, and being close to him and getting to see him in a way no one else was allowed. _And kisses too last night,_ he thought. _Still not sure what that was about. Not complaining mind, was fabulous, even given the circumstances. Wonder if we'll do that again?_

He let his mind drift for a few minutes in a pleasant recollection of the feel of Sherlock's lips on his. They had been everything he had imagined they would be, and more. He wondered idly whether it was possible they might end up in a sexual relationship one day, and dwelled on how much he would enjoy that. And then with a sigh he looked at the clock and started to disentangle himself from Sherlock's long limbs. It was very tempting to forget about work and stay in bed dozing and daydreaming, but there were bills to pay and clinic hours to be filled.

"John?" Sherlock asked sleepily, "Where are you going?"

"Shhh," John stroked his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed, revelling in being allowed to show affection again, "I have to go to work. Go back to sleep pet."

Sherlock, in his sleepy state, was even more feline than usual and positively purred at the feel of the hand in his hair, rubbing himself again John, until John got up and headed out to the bathroom. Sherlock was awake really, but enjoying being lazy and dozing too, unusually for him. His normal state was either asleep or awake - no half measures. But there was a lot to process after the previous night, and John's bed was cosy and smelt of John, and he felt cocooned and safe. It was good that he could associate John with safety again rather than danger.

They hadn't exactly talked last night, just a couple of sentences before they'd fallen into bed and slept. Both had been exhausted from Sherlock's forced session and the aftermath. It had been draining and upsetting for them both but a cathartic experience. They weren't exactly back to normal - it was far too soon for that. But connections had been re-established and bonds reaffirmed. Sleeping together had felt right as they had both needed the physical closeness to reassure themselves that the other was okay.

Sherlock was also thinking about the kissing. He had enjoyed it, more than he had expected to. It wasn't that he never kissed, or had sex, just that he had very little interest in it so didn't really bother with it. Kissing John had been different. It could have been because they were both suffering from heightened emotions, but Sherlock had a suspicion it was more than that, and that kissing John at any time might be a pleasurable experience. He made a mental note to try it again some time.

While Sherlock was thinking, John had come back in the room to get dressed. Sherlock, huddled under the covers, peeped out to watch the Doctor move around his room. He didn't often get a chance to see the Doctor walk around in just a pair of boxers and he observed carefully, analysing every scar and mark across the broad chest, muscled legs and trim waist as John found a shirt to put on.

"Are you watching me?" he asked, amused, as he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's grey eyes looking out from the edge of the duvet.

Sherlock grinned in response, pulling the covers down slightly so he could see better.

John laughed, and carried on choosing clothes for the day. He found a shirt and jeans and wandered back to the bed with them. "Do you want to analyse me?"

Sherlock frowned, unsure if there was a correct answer here. Yes, of course he did, but would that be rude?

"I don't mind," John clarified, reading Sherlock's mind for once. "You can look. I don't have long before I need to leave, but I'll give the time to you if you'd like it."

Sherlock, unwilling to progress to a vocal affirmation, merely moved himself up in the bed until he was sitting with his back resting against the headboard, knees up to his chest, covers pulled up over him. He looked at John with fascinated interest, so John dropped the clothing on the bed and stood straight, facing Sherlock.

John wasn't overly body conscious so the intense scrutiny didn't bother him. His body was strong - it had carried him through medical school and army training. It had survived a war, and it had survived Sherlock Holmes' London. There were scars, softening muscles, imperfections, but they all told a story and he knew Sherlock would see beyond the flesh and bones to the stories underneath.

He held still for a minute or so, watching Sherlock's eyes roam over him hungrily. Then he turned slowly, allowing his friend to see his back. Again, he gave Sherlock a couple of minutes before twisting his head round to face the detective and said apologetically, "Sorry, I've got to get dressed now or I'll be late for work. Remind me another day and I'll give you longer if you want it."

Sherlock pouted in response but was secretly quite pleased he'd been given both a chance to look, and a promise of further analysis later. Next time John might let him touch too - that would be even better. He was itching to inspect the scar on John's shoulder in more detail. For all the times Sherlock had been naked or near to it in John's presence, John had worn a t-shirt and boxers as a minimum. So this was a rare and appreciated treat.

"I need to go sort my bag for the Surgery," John apologised as he finished buttoning his shirt, "but I'll bring you up some tea before I go."

He smiled at Sherlock and left the room, thinking to himself it felt worryingly natural to wake up next to the man. Sherlock had slept in his bed several times over the past few months, but usually he woke up the same time as John if not earlier, and he tended to bound out of bed and away as soon as his eyes opened. This sleepy, contented morning-Sherlock was new and he rather enjoyed it. Again, he felt a pang of regret that work beckoned and he couldn't take more time to enjoy it.

True to his word he brought tea and biscuits up to Sherlock before he left for work. Sherlock was back buried under the covers, just the top of his head showing. John didn't converse, just put the tea and plate down on the bedside table and touched Sherlock's hair briefly before saying goodbye.

He went off to work that day with a swing in his step that had been missing for weeks.

oOo

Things were easier now. It took time but slowly the two made it back to a place of trust. They were more careful these days - John didn't drink, and if did have a couple in the pub with the guys he always refused Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, was sensibly cautious about blurring the lines between real life and their games. He and John still had arguments and disagreements but they were careful to never let it spill over into the bedroom. John had thrown away his belt the day after That Night, unable to look at it. He never offered the replacement as an option for Sherlock to choose.

oOo

The first time John suggested restraining Sherlock was, quite frankly, terrifying for them both. John came into the living room one evening with two mugs of tea and put one in front of Sherlock before sitting in his chair, looking at the detective pensively.

Sherlock knew the moment John had walked through the door that he had something on his mind he wanted to share, but that he was unsure whether Sherlock would like it.

John started, and stopped. Took a sip of tea instead. And again, until half the mug was empty. In growing frustration, Sherlock sat up and fixed him with an icy stare.

"Whatever it is you are thinking of asking, trust me it can't be anywhere near as bad as watching you dithering." Sherlock told him derisively.

John laughed, "You haven't heard what I'm going to suggest yet."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow in a gesture clearly meant to say 'go on'.

"I'd like you to come to my room tonight," John started. Nothing unusual so far - both requested the other's company when they wanted it. "And I'd like... to tie you up, if you will let me."

Sherlock kept his face impassive but his mind was racing. Up until now they had reestablished most elements of the play they had enjoyed before, but John had been careful to ensure Sherlock was not restrained in any way by him or by physical bondage. It was a safety measure - Sherlock knew he could always get away if he wanted to.

"I don't want to push you too hard," John continued, "But I know it was something you particularly enjoyed before so I'd like to reintroduce it. I'll understand if it is too soon... but you should know I'm willing, once you are."

"What are you proposing?" Sherlock was cautious.

"I don't know. I thought something simple? Whatever you are comfortable with, I guess. I just don't want you to think this is something you can't ever have again, because of my stupidity."

Sherlock nodded, deep in thought.

"I'll leave it up to you, Sherlock. If you come to me I'll offer it, but you can always say no or suggest an alternative you'd prefer." With that John went over to his laptop and immersed himself in writing up their latest case for his blog.

They passed an easy evening together, each working on their own projects. Nothing more was said about John's suggestion, but he knew the detective was still debating it. He didn't push, just said goodnight when he was ready to head to bed. He pottered around his room in his pyjamas for a while to give Sherlock the chance to come up, and was gratified to hear a footstep on the stairs. He got up and opened the door before Sherlock reached it so he didn't have to knock and wait for entry.

"I'm glad you came up," John told him warmly as he welcomed him into the room. Beckoning to the chair, he indicated Sherlock should sit. Sherlock sat, looking slightly bemused. He didn't think he'd ever sat in that chair - in John's room he was usually kneeling at John's feet, or sprawled out across the bed. Sitting felt a little strange actually, a bit out of place.

He felt even stranger when John knelt at _his_ feet and looked up at him.

"I know this is a big deal. Probably more so than on our very first night in here, so I want to be very clear with you what the rules are tonight."

Sherlock nodded.

"Firstly, you have all the power. I will do exactly what you say tonight - so if you want more, less, harder, softer, whatever, you tell me and I'll do it."

That got a half-smile from Sherlock, amused at the way things were shaping up.

"Secondly, I do want to tie you up, but I will make sure you have the ability to leave the room if you need to without my assistance. So I won't restrain your legs and I won't tie you to the headboard or anything. I was thinking rope?"

"Rope would work best," Sherlock agreed. He knew that if he was tied with rope he could always cut through it if he couldn't undo the knots. Much easier to get out of than the police cuffs they used to use, although given time and opportunity he could pick the locks to escape from them too.

"Third rule, and the most important one. You have to tell me what your safe words are and promise me you'll use them if you need to. If you can't do that we can't play."

Sherlock agreed easily, unconcerned. "I promise."

"And the words are...?" John prompted.

Sherlock gave a small sigh of frustration at having to state the obvious, but humoured John. "Amber if I want a break or for you to slow down, red to stop completely."

John smiled gratefully, "Thank you pet."

With an involuntary groan at the stiffness in his knees he stood up and made his way to the bedside table where he kept a short coil of soft white cotton rope, pointedly ignoring the sniggering coming from Sherlock at the way his joints clicked and cracked. He retrieved the rope and came back to the chair, once again kneeling in front of his friend.

"Could you take your t-shirt off please pet? I'd like to work on your front if you are ok with that."

Sherlock duly removed his t-shirt, leaving him sitting in the chair in his pyjama bottoms. John grasped Sherlock's hands gently and brought them forward together, so his arms were outstretched and wrists were together. Very carefully, watching Sherlock's face for any hint of unease, John looped the rope around the proffered wrists, wound it around a couple of times, then knotted. He was careful to make it secure, but not tight. He knew there was no point in deliberately leaving them loose. It had to feel real to Sherlock - he wouldn't get a true reaction unless it was a proper test.

"How does that feel?" he asked gently.

Sherlock took a deep breath and flexed his wrists, testing to see if he could slip out of them. "It's alright," he hazarded.

John stood, catching Sherlock's eye as they both grinned at John's creaky knees. He broadcast every move clearly so Sherlock wouldn't be surprised. Reaching down he grasped Sherlock's bound wrists and pulled him to his feet.

"Lie on the bed for me please pet." John requested.

Sherlock obediently walked over to the bed and lay down, his head resting on the pillows, his arms by his side so his bound wrists sat below his ribs. He was surprised to notice his heart rate had increased and his breath quickened. Even being here in this position made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. John, noticing his unease, sat on the edge of the bed and soothed. He stroked Sherlock's arm and murmured little nonsense phrases about how good he was and how pleased John was with him. The tone of his voice calmed Sherlock and he felt himself relax again.

John, noticing the change, reached down to the bedside table and pulled out a leather flogger from the drawer. It was made of soft black leather and was a toy they both liked and had played with many times. It produced a light stinging sensation at the most rather than anything painful and was easily controlled.

"Okay?" John queried.

Sherlock nodded in agreement and John growled at him playfully. "Actual words, pet. You have to be vocal with me tonight."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, "Yes, the flogger is good John. Better?"

"Much," John grinned.

Reaching down he picked up Sherlock's bound wrists and eased his arms gently over his head. From where he was laying Sherlock could grip the bars of the headboard if he wanted, or just rest his hands on the pillow. He felt a fleeting flash of worry but it soon went and he allowed John to position him.

"I'm going to start by running the strands over your chest pet. Don't forget the rules - you are in charge. So when you want more, or less, you have to tell me." John suddenly looked stricken.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"I was going to straddle you, sit across your legs," John confessed, "But I don't know if that is too much?"

"Oh." Sherlock paused, thinking and analysing. "No, that's acceptable, you can do that. I'll tell you if I need you to move."

John smiled gratefully and moved up onto the bed, kneeling either side of Sherlock's narrow hips. Taking the whip in his left hand he gave Sherlock an exaggeratedly lewd grin before tapping the strands gently on his shoulder then dragging them down his torso. Sherlock giggled in response, relaxing into it.

"More?" John raised an eyebrow in query.

"More" Sherlock confirmed, nodding his head.

So John raised the flogger again and did the same to the other shoulder, ending in Sherlock's navel. He circled Sherlock's belly button lightly with the strands, until Sherlock huffed in mock-annoyance and shifted out of the way slightly.

"What would you like pet?" John asked softly, keeping the tone light.

"Do it again please John, I like the sensation. Feels good."

"It would be my pleasure" and John grinned again, pleased Sherlock was playing along and appeared to be enjoying himself. He continued to softly strike the bound man's shoulders, dragging the flogger across his torso to tease him after each strike.

Eventually Sherlock could bear it no more, "Harder please John, and lower."

John obediently aimed lower - across Sherlock's pecs, and increased the pressure. After the first ten or so strikes there was a faint rosy hue rising against the ivory skin. Running his fingers over it he could feel the heat as the flogger did its job.

"Lower again please John"

So John aimed across Sherlock's rib cage, covering the whole area in gentle strikes of the flogger's tail. His aim was precise and he could feel Sherlock melting into the sensation. John was careful to continue to watch his face to spot any sign of unease, but at the moment it appeared to be pure pleasure if his half-lidded eyes were anything to go by.

Sherlock was lost in a lovely haze of gentle tingling sensation. It didn't sting or hurt. He could just feel a light thud every time the strands hit, and an accompanying warmth spreading out across his skin. It felt wonderful, and he forgot to be cautious about being restrained and instead gripped the bars of the headboard with his hands so he could better focus on what John was doing.

"Mmmmmm" an involuntary groan of pleasure left Sherlock's mouth as he arched his back, pushing into the strikes.

John giggled at him, "Having fun there pet?"

Sherlock gazed up at him through drowsy eyes and smiled.

John couldn't resist leaning forward and running his hands over the flushed skin. He bent towards Sherlock's head and whispered in his ear "Your skin feels so hot right now, it must be super sensitive. I bet every touch feels like it is burning."

Sherlock's response was a gratifyingly incoherent moan.

John brought himself back upright and started again with the flogger, slowly covering every inch of available skin, taking his time, enjoying Sherlock's response. He paused when he finished, feeling like they needed a bit of a break, and just ran the strands of leather over Sherlock, waiting for a new instruction.

Sherlock seemed to have retreated into himself somewhat, so John nudged him. "What would you like Sherlock? More? Something different?"

His friend sighed, and stretched his long limbs. "Can I have anything?" He asked, his eyes lighting up.

John laughed but told him indulgently, "Provided it won't kill either of us I will give you anything you ask for."

"Ice" Sherlock replied, cryptically.

"Ice?"

"To cool me down," Sherlock responded with an excessively innocent tone. John knew he was up to something, but it was a harmless enough request. So he smiled and told Sherlock he'd be right back, and headed down to the kitchen to get a glass of ice.

When he got back Sherlock hadn't moved, and he admired the view from the doorway of his flatmate stretched out across his bed, his skin flushed, his eyes bright, his hands clasping the headboard still.

"Pet, you look positively edible right now," he murmured as he climbed back onto the bed, resuming his position kneeling over Sherlock. He took a cube of ice and held it in his fingertips. With a suggestive leer, he asked, "Now, where would you like this?"

Sherlock giggled, his mind still a little blown by the earlier play. "I think, um, all over?" He was unable to make it a statement - it came out more of a question. He hadn't really had a plan with the ice, he just thought it sounded nice after all the heat.

"You might regret that" John told him, an evil grin showing. Without further ado, he took the cube of ice and slowly ran it up the middle of Sherlock's front - from his belly button to his adam's apple. Sherlock gasped as the ice slowly melted and cold water trickled over his hot skin. When John lifted the ice cube off, a single drop of moisture clung to the dip in Sherlock's throat. Without thinking about it, John reached down and licked it. He looked up to find Sherlock staring at him, pupils completely blown. Sherlock blinked once, very slowly, and then deliberately licked his lips.

John smiled at him, took the ice cube, and drew another path across Sherlock's torso with it, this time finishing on his shoulder blade. Again, he licked up the last few drops of water left on the heated skin. He deliberately avoided looking at Sherlock's face. Instead he focused on the rapidly diminishing cube and trailing yet more pathways. He tried but failed to keep a slight smile off his face at the sound of an increasingly frustrated detective whimpering with need, but he steadfastly ignored him.

Finally Sherlock could take it no longer, "John!" He cried.

"Yes pet?" John too could do innocent.

"More! You said I could have anything, yes?" He clarified

John nodded, still looking down at the sliver of ice he was currently using to trace around Sherlock's right nipple.

"I want you to do that licking thing again. Please."

John smiled. "You want me to lick all the moisture off your hot skin?"

Sherlock shivered with want. In a small voice, almost afraid John would say no, he said, "Yes?"

John heard the doubt in Sherlock's voice and looked up, allowing their eyes to meet. He knew once he had that he would be sunk and Sherlock would see all the desire and longing in them, but he didn't care. He wanted this just as much as Sherlock appeared to, and he wanted his friend to know that. With a growl of desire he leant forward, tracing his tongue up the man's chest, keeping eye contact the whole way, until Sherlock closed his eyes in pleasure, arching his back with need.

He lapped and sucked and kissed his way from Sherlock's navel to his throat, exploring every inch of skin. There was heat from the flogger, and coolness from the ice and it all felt absolutely perfect to him. Reaching down, he found another cube of ice and held it in his mouth while tracing his tongue around again, searching out the spots that made Sherlock gasp and teasing them further, letting the ice touch them before soothing with his tongue and lips.

Quite frankly, it was the most erotic thing he had done in years. _And we've still got most of our clothing on_, John thought in amazement. _Just think what it is going to be like when we finally shag - well, if we ever get that far..._

Sherlock's little debauched pleasure noises were increasing in frequency and John amused himself seeing how he could change the tone of them depending on how and where he touched. Nipples got an especially strong response, especially when he sucked on them lightly. He'd given up all hope of pretending this was anything but drawn out foreplay.

He was interrupted by Sherlock. "John, I think you should go higher."

Amused, John complied, kissing and licking up to the detective's collar bone.

"higher"

Throat, little kisses and nips to mark the skin lightly

"Higher"

Jawline, starting at his left ear and working around, licking and butterfly kisses until he reached the other side

"Higher John," Sherlock was gasping now.

John smiled, knowing exactly what Sherlock wanted, but determined to make him beg for it, just a little. So he kissed his cheekbones, his nose, his closed eyes - everywhere but his mouth.

"Oh please," Sherlock groaned, opening his eyes and looking pleadingly at John, "Kiss me, please, John"

"Close your eyes," John whispered.

Sherlock did, and felt a light brush of air as John breathed out as he traced a path with the lightest touch of his lips from Sherlock's ear to his mouth. Sherlock moaned yet again, unable to help himself, and John slowly, carefully, deliberately, kissed him.

* * *

**A/N** - To be continued! I'm off work this week so lots of updates. Next chapter will be up in a couple of days... Hope you are enjoying! As always, I love to read reviews and comments.


	9. Chapter 9

At first it was slow, gentle and deliberate, tantalising and testing. John was propped up on his arms, kneeling above Sherlock and he used the advantages of his physical position to continue to tease the man. He planted light soft kisses on his lips, sometimes slightly longer and deeper, then back to gentle, breathing into him, making him reach up for more. It was delicate and delicious and felt to John like he was stealing kisses from Sherlock - that any moment now Sherlock would stop him and it would be over.

Then Sherlock half opened his piercing grey eyes and looked straight into John's, and moaned into his mouth. That was it - the fragile control over himself John was maintaining was gone. Slow and gentle was forgotten as John gave in to his need for more and crushed his mouth against Sherlock's. This was nothing like their first kisses which were tinted with regret and sorrow. This was all lust and desire and flames - hot and sweet and utterly addictive.

John's lips dominated Sherlock completely and Sherlock could do no more than kiss him back and hold on for the ride. John, for his part, was doing his best to put every single thing he had ever learnt about kissing into the one kiss. _Holy fuck I want him. Got to make this good - show him what he's been missing out on, _he thought to himself. He licked and nibbled and teased and showed Sherlock how kissing should be done. He bit Sherlock's lower lip and sucked and pulled on it gently, encouraging him to open his mouth to John, and when Sherlock, ever obedient in John's room, complied, John showed him exactly how he could make Sherlock forget everything apart from John's tongue in his mouth doing something _divine_ to him.

Finally they broke apart, gasping. John dropped his head, leaning so his forehead touched Sherlock's. "That was a little unexpected," he said wryly. Sherlock was too busy catching his breath and wondering why his brain had stopped working to respond.

With a sigh, John sat up and surveyed the detective sprawled beneath him, skin flushed, lips reddened and swollen, hair askew. "You look amazing - completely wanton and debauched," he told Sherlock admiringly, somewhat baffled as to how he, ordinary John Watson, had managed to have that much effect on the great Sherlock Holmes.

He swung his leg round to kneel by Sherlock's side and pulled the detective's bound wrists up in front of him before starting to undo the knots. John was so focused on what he was doing and trying to get himself back under control that he didn't notice the worried silence from Sherlock. As John loosened the rope and stroked the marks left on his wrists Sherlock plucked up the courage to speak.

"You stopped," he said in a small voice.

John continued to look down at his thumbs running over the wrists in front of him. "Yes, thought I'd better."

"Why?" and Sherlock's voice got even smaller and a touch petulant, "Didn't you enjoy it? You don't want...?" and he trailed off, unsure how to finish that question. _Don't want to kiss? Don't want sex? Don't want __me__?_

John looked up at him, surprise showing, as he finally noticed everything was not okay with Sherlock. "You think I didn't enjoy that? That I don't want it? Christ!"

With an exasperated smile, John grabbed Sherlock's right hand and roughly pulled it to the crotch of his pyjamas, rubbing his rock hard cock against Sherlock's palm through the thin fabric before pulling their joint hands away again. "Does that answer your question? Of course I bloody want you!"

Sherlock opened his eyes wide at the feel of John under his hand. That was indeed reassuring, he thought slightly smugly, wishing John had let him touch him there for longer.

"So, why did you stop?" Sherlock asked, persisting.

"Shove up," John said, prodding Sherlock until he moved to the far side of the bed. Throwing himself down next to the detective he sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "I didn't want to, you must know that. It's just... we've only just got back to being okay with each other, and I don't want to push things. I'd rather we took things slowly. If that's alright with you?"

"I suppose so." Sherlock said sulkily, like a child whose favourite toy has been taken away.

John sighed again and propped himself up on his elbow so he could look Sherlock in the face as he spoke. "Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock noted the use of his given name and not 'pet', "I care for you far too much to mess this up. I'd love nothing more than to rip off all our clothes right now and touch every secret part of you and try to give you the most intense orgasm you've ever had, but I'm scared. If we do that and it isn't right, we will lose everything, and I can't lose you," John said seriously. "You're my best friend," he added with a smile.

Sherlock looked at John, and saw that he was speaking the truth - that he was scared, and that he did want more. He reached out a hand to touch John's arm, and nodded to show he understood even if he didn't like it.

John fell back onto the pillow with a thump and they both lay on the bed, next to each other but not touching, immersed in their own thoughts. Finally the tension in the room dissipated enough for John to reach out a hand to grasp his friend's.

"Want to sleep here, pet?" he asked.

Sherlock squeezed his fingers in confirmation, so John turned off the lights and pulled Sherlock to him so his head rested on John's shoulder. They slept, the proximity to the other both a comfort and a frustration as their dreams took them where John had refused to allow their bodies to follow.

oOo oOo

They lay together in bed early the next morning, wrapped up in each other's limbs, comfortable and easy.

"Can I ask you something John?"

"Of course," he said, sleepily, "Anything you like. Can't promise I'll answer though."

"Why do you call me pet?" Asked Sherlock shyly.

John grinned, "I was wondering how long before you questioned me about that."

He took a moment to trail his fingers up and down Sherlock's arm while he thought. "When I first did it, it was because I wanted to take you away from yourself, get you to let go. It was just another trick to stop you focusing on being 'Sherlock' and instead focusing on me and the moment. Names help with that."

"But over time," he continued, "It became something more. Do you mind when I call you that? Do you like it?" He asked

"Yes, I think so..."

"I do it," John confessed, "because when I call you pet I'm reinforcing that you are mine and we have this secret other life at home that no one else knows about. You are 'Sherlock' to everyone else but for me you answer to my chosen private name for you. It wouldn't matter what name I'd used, but I like 'pet' because it is nice - I'd never call you something derogatory. I mean it as a term of endearment. It is very special to me... But if it bothers you I'll stop."

"Oh!" Sherlock felt surprisingly crestfallen at the thought of John stopping, "No, don't stop. I like it... No one has ever called me anything but Sherlock before"

"Not even love or darling or something?" asked John, slightly incredulously.

"John," Sherlock said reprovingly, back to his usual sarcastic self, "Do I look like a 'love' or a 'darling' to you?"

"Pet, you look like a man who spent last night tied to my bed letting me do all kinds of very naughty and delicious things to him, and then begged me to kiss him. I can't think of anyone I'd rather call _darling_ than you."

Sherlock smiled at that, and raised an eyebrow in challenge. "You may call me darling if you want to" he said imperiously, then grinned as John huffed and elbowed him in the stomach in response.

They were interrupted from any further repercussions by Sherlock's text alert. He bounded out of bed to find his phone then raced back into John's room and exclaimed, "John! Triple homicide - at least an eight! We have to go!" before running back down the stairs to his own room to get dressed. John stared at the space Sherlock had just been in with a fond mixture of exasperation and amusement, then rose out of bed with a sigh. He thought, quite rightly, that they might have a long week ahead.

oOo oOo

The crime scene was as grisly as John had feared and Sherlock had secretly hoped. Three young men, seemingly completely unconnected apart from their current resting place and very little evidence to point to the murderer. Sherlock was in his element and John stood back and watched him work proudly.

Over the next three days as they focused on the case Sherlock was rude, impervious and arrogant, and John wouldn't have had it any other way. He fetched and carried for the detective, listened to his deductions and called him amazing and brilliant, and did anything and everything that Sherlock demanded of him. John gently chided him about eating and drinking, but allowed Sherlock to get away with the bare minimum of care for himself, and he didn't once suggest they slept together, even though he missed Sherlock's presence in his bed terribly. He knew full well Sherlock wouldn't sleep with a case this exciting to work on.

On the fourth day Sherlock finally narrowed down the motive and suspects to the customers of a specific bar near Covent Garden and an undercover operation was planned. Unfortunately for John, given the previous victims, the most believable bait was Sherlock. Sherlock was acting responsibly for a change and allowed Lestrade to set up a full backup team, as well as agreeing to John being in the bar too to keep an eye on him. The sting was set for the following night as the evidence had suggested that all the men were snatched on a Friday night.

John insisted Sherlock eat and sleep the night before (in his own bed), first asking, then pleading, then threatening to tie him to the bed and force him unless he did as he was asked. Sherlock grumbled but was willing privately to concede that a couple of slices of toast and a few hours sleep was unlikely to be a bad thing at that point. Not that he was going to give in gracefully. John didn't care - so long as he got his way Sherlock could be as stroppy as he liked about it.

They spent the day on Friday going back over the case notes, looking for anything that they might have missed which would indicate in advance who the likely murderer was. At present the net was rather wide - a woman in her thirties, attractive, and independently wealthy. The placement of the stab marks on the victims indicated she was tall, but other than that little could be confirmed. They could only hope Sherlock was attractive enough bait to lure her out so he could identify her before she killed again.

John came down the stairs at 7pm ready to leave the flat, and stopped dead in the doorway, his jaw dropping. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room flicking through some papers. He looked up and frowned at John. "What's wrong?"

John's eyes swept slowly and lasciviously over Sherlock, currently dressed in skin-tight jeans and a dark blue fitted shirt with one too many buttons undone at the neck. "Oh, nothing is _wrong_ pet, nothing at all," he said, deliberately allowing lust to thicken his voice. "You look positively edible in that get-up," he growled, walking over to where Sherlock was standing.

Sherlock gave him an amused glance, and went back to the papers he was perusing, until he found himself being pushed backwards until he hit the door. John took his wrists and pinned them, papers and all, against the door frame with one hand, before using the other to grasp the back of Sherlock's neck and pull him in for a deep and intense kiss.

"Be careful tonight pet," John whispered in his ear when he finally released Sherlock from the kiss, "I've got a bad feeling about this one. Don't take any risks."

Sherlock, still slightly shaky from the potency of the kiss nodded in agreement. He absently thought that if this was the reaction he got, he'd wear outfits like this more often around John.

oOo oOo

The bar was buzzing with typical Friday night patrons - a young, beautiful and painfully hip crowd with whom Sherlock fitted in perfectly with his cheekbones, his public school accent and his naturally air of being superior to everyone else in the room. John sat at the bar nursing a pint and scowling at all the pretty young things, especially those who flocked around his flatmate. Sherlock was standing at the other end of the bar to John and was in full undercover mode, smiling and casually flirting with the women who approached him, whilst managing to deflect their suggestions he danced with them or joined their table.

Every so often Sherlock would catch John's eyes and John could see the distaste in them from having to be so close to all these strangers. He knew how much Sherlock disliked casual physical contact unless it was with the trusted few, and these girls were pawing all over him with no regard to personal space. It was excruciating for John to sit there and watch as the women undressed him with their eyes and touched _his _Sherlock. But he held his emotions in check. This was too important to let his personal feelings get in the way - they were there to catch a murderer.

John knew the very second Sherlock identified the woman responsible for the killings. No one else would notice but John could read Sherlock almost as well as he read John, and he saw the split second burst of recognition on his face before he schooled it back to the casual indifference he had adopted that evening as his default look. John kept his cool and watched across the bar as a strikingly beautiful woman in towering heels leant in to Sherlock and whispered something in his ear. John watched him laugh at whatever she had said to him, and gaze at her over his glass as he drank, fixing her with his seductive stare. When she suggested he joined her at a corner table, he complied.

oOo oOo

The plan was simple - find the murderer, find out her name and address so they could link it to the evidence and prove reasonable cause to arrest her, then get out of there so Lestrade and his team could do the rest. No need for heroics or danger. That was the plan, but of course reality was very different. To start with, Sherlock could not find out her name. He asked, and she told him it was Rachel Adams, but he knew she was lying. He lifted her purse from her bag when she wasn't looking, but there was no ID in there. He couldn't push her further without it sounding suspicious, so he excused himself to get them both more drinks and pushed through the crowd to stand next to John at the bar.

"It's her, but I've got a problem" Sherlock told John curtly. "She's not told me her name and I can't find anything with that or her address on it."

"What do you want to do?" John asked, knowing the detective would want to be sure she was arrested that night before anyone else got hurt.

Sherlock growled in frustration. "I'm going to have to continue, see if she invites me home with her. You and the police will be able follow us and we'll get her that way. I've activated the tracker on my phone so you can't lose me."

He collected his drinks from the barman and turned, flashing a brief glance at John as he went, "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "I hate this almost as much as you do."

John merely nodded and reached for his pint, unwilling to reply in case it blew Sherlock's cover. He was somewhat reassured by Sherlock's admission, although he hated this new plan even more than the original. Every second Sherlock sat with that woman and allowed her to run her fingers down his arm and whisper in his ear was agony for John. It was even worse when Sherlock stroked her jaw line with one finger before leaning in and kissing her.

John knew he had a possessive streak but it had never been this bad before. _You were never with someone like Sherlock before_ he told himself. It took all of John's army trained control not to storm over there and yank him back. His hands clenched into involuntary fists underneath the bar as he watched her run her lips down Sherlock's neck and over his collarbone. _Back off, he's mine, _John shouted in his mind, trying to get her to stop through sheer force of will.

There was a mixture of relief and worry in him when she did stop, as it was because she stood and held a hand out to Sherlock who readily took it. She led them out of the bar and John reached the door just in time to see them get into a passing taxi.

With a particularly inventive curse, he ran round the corner to where Lestrade and Donovan were sitting in an unmarked police car. "Did you see them?" He asked urgently.

Lestrade nodded. "We're tracking his phone, get in - we'll be leaving any second now."

John jumped into the back of the car and was relieved when Sally Donovan started the engine immediately and headed out across London, following the directions Lestrade gave her as he watching Sherlock's tracker move. They finally stopped on a nondescript street near Hampstead Heath.

"He's in there John," confirmed Lestrade, pointing to a house. "This address will be enough to arrest her - I'll inform the team and we'll go get her now." Lestrade was already on the radio before he had finished talking, urgently commanding the rest of the team. Greg didn't say anything but he was anxious about Sherlock - despite everything he rather liked the difficult man, and he really didn't want him hurt while on a case. If nothing else, the thought of a vengeful Mycroft Holmes if Sherlock was harmed in any way was enough to terrify him.

John watched anxiously from the car as the teams went in, frustrated beyond belief that they had refused him permission to join them. He watched as 'Rachel' was led out in handcuffs to an awaiting police car, and then with relief saw Sherlock walk out of the house.

Unable to wait any longer he got out of the car and walked quickly over to him. "You are safe?" he asked urgently, checking him over with both his eyes and his hands "You weren't hurt?"

Sherlock leaned into him briefly, allowing himself a moment of weakness with John before putting the public persona back into place. "No John, I'm fine." He managed a brusque tone, hiding his internal distress at how things had gone, "She didn't do anything other than ply me with wine and try and get into my pants. The Yarders came in before it could go any further."

John gripped Sherlock's arms gently in relief and reassurance. He read Sherlock perfectly and knew that although he was making light of it, this had been hard on the detective. His own jealousy could wait, Sherlock needed him to be calm right now. "What do you need?"

"Take me home please John. I want to get rid of these clothes and shower. Her hands were all over me." The distaste was creeping closer to the surface, and John could tell Sherlock was losing his ability to hide it.

"I've got you," he said reassuringly, rubbing his arms over Sherlock's in an effort to rid the man of the feel of the woman's touch. He glanced around. No one was within hearing distance so he risked it. "Pet, I've got you, I'll make it better."

Sherlock gave him a hint of a smile, but the trust in his eyes when he looked at John spoke volumes. John procured a taxi and helped Sherlock into it before climbing in himself.

"221b Baker Street" he said, with considerable relief.

* * *

**A/N** - Next chapter will be up in a couple of days... Hope you are enjoying! As always, I love to read reviews and comments.


	10. Chapter 10

The taxi ride back to Baker Street seemed to take forever to John, despite the lack of traffic in the early hours of the morning. He was anxious to get Sherlock home and to somewhere he felt safe because he was clearly not comfortable with how the evening had gone. John didn't really understand what had happened - Sherlock had endured far worse than a woman fawning over him when undercover and he usually brushed off near-death experiences without a second glance. He wasn't sure what had been different this time but something had been.

Sherlock sat hunched in the corner of the taxi staring out of the window. John sat on the other side, burningly aware of the seat between them but unable to breach it when Sherlock was radiating angry _keep away_ signals. He wanted to comfort the man but knew it would be unappreciated in general, and especially here in a public space with a taxi driver to witness it. So he sat still and counted down the minutes until finally they pulled up outside the flat. When the taxi stopped Sherlock got out without a word, leaving John to pay as Sherlock opened the door to the building and stormed up the stairs. John finally caught up with him at the door to their flat.

Sherlock unlocked the door and they both walked into the living room. John shut the door behind him and said simply, "What do you need Sherlock?"

Sherlock, facing the coat pegs by the door, closed his eyes in relief. John was so good at reading him. He knew when to push and when to let Sherlock be, and when to just offer quiet and steady support. Sherlock was unendingly grateful for the other man's empathy at times like this - a skill he knew he was sadly lacking in himself.

"A shower. I need to shower." Sherlock told him, deciding that feeling clean would be a good start.

John, grinning slightly in advance acknowledgement of his own predictability said, "I'll make us some tea then." And Sherlock, true to form, rolled his eyes at John, and John smiled back.

And suddenly with that splash of grounding normality, things were okay. Not great, not brilliant, but okay. Which Sherlock thought was a vast improvement.

oOo oOo

Sherlock returned to the lounge some time later wearing his pyjamas and with wet hair. He looked much happier than he had in the taxi but John was still worried about him. John was deadly tired, and knew Sherlock too must be as he hadn't really slept for days. But he was making the effort to stay up and awake and give the detective time to talk if he wanted to. Not that talking about emotions or things that made him uncomfortable was really Sherlock's style, but still.

John made it through one cup of tea and 27 minutes of brooding silence from Sherlock in the chair opposite him before giving in. He knew if he stayed in his chair any longer he would fall asleep and then wake up in the morning with his shoulder spasming from the position. So with a massive yawn and a bone crunching stretch he stood up. He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, reminding him of John's presence, and told him gently "I'm off to bed Sherlock, will you be okay?"

"What? John? Oh, yes of course." Sherlock replied with a frown and a wave of his arm in dismissal.

The good doctor headed up the stairs, slightly disappointed that their earlier intimacy seemed to be so fleeting. He had always known Sherlock would be able to compartmentalise his life in this way, but at that moment it left him feeling a little raw. He knew he could pull rank, force the detective into some kind of interaction, but that seemed a little excessive for now. _Rather save that one for when I really need it_, John thought.

John fell asleep quickly to the faint strains of a violin being played downstairs, the stress and strain of the previous few days catching up with him. He awoke briefly when he felt the covers pulled from over him, but he was soothed with a murmured baritone "Shhhh" in his ear and a hand around his waist, pulling him in tightly.

It was a pleasant surprise in the morning to discover he hadn't been dreaming, and Sherlock had indeed climbed into bed with him. Not only was John pleased that Sherlock had actively chosen his company, but that the detective had slept at all. Sherlock was still asleep when John woke, so he lay there for a while just enjoying the warmth and closeness of a shared bed. John had shared his bed with Sherlock many times but he never grew tired of it. Sherlock's lack of personal boundaries when it came to John seemed to be unconscious as well as deliberate and John generally found himself waking either pinned under Sherlock, or wrapped with his long limbs. John would like to think it was some kind of show of affection but he figured it was probably more likely to be Sherlock's way of making sure he didn't escape.

He worried over the problem of the previous day in his mind as he lay still, waiting for Sherlock to wake up until he came up with something he thought might help both of them.

oOo oOo

Sherlock woke with a start to the feel of someone - _John,_ his mind quickly supplied - biting the back of his neck firmly. He tensed for a split second, then relaxed into the undeniably pleasant sensation as John licked and nipped and sucked his way around Sherlock's collar. Neither said anything as John eased Sherlock's t-shirt over his head, giving him access to Sherlock's shoulder blades and yet more delicious skin to mark and claim.

Sherlock whimpered as John caught the pulse point behind his ear and sucked hard, making his heart race. John added teeth to the mix, taking it past pleasure and into the edge of pain. He gasped as John let go with a final hard nip of his teeth and followed it up with a growling "_mine_" in Sherlock's ear. John's hand snaked around Sherlock's throat, gripping him and holding him still as he found another spot on his long pale neck to bite, admiring the contrast between the redness of the marks, the ivory tones of Sherlock's skin and the indents where his teeth had made contact.

With a start Sherlock found himself being pushed into the bed and John was on top of him pinning him down.

"Where else did she touch you? Show me?" John asked roughly.

Sherlock eased his arm free from under John and ran his fingers through his hair and down his cheekbone.

John nodded, then asked gently, "What do you need love? Hard or soft?"

"Hard," he told John, wanting to be rid of every trace of the woman.

John smiled for a second with his eyes, reassuring Sherlock that he was with him, then sat back on Sherlock to give him his arms free. Sherlock watched as John's expression became colder and calculating, and then in slow motion as John's hand came up and struck him across the cheek. The instantaneous burst of heat and shock was everything Sherlock needed to be rid of the feel of the previous night's touch. John's hand lingered, stroking down his cheekbone, soothing the hurt. Then he repositioned Sherlock's face to centre, and slapped the other side. Sherlock couldn't stop himself flinching in anticipation this time, but didn't move away.

John looked carefully at his friend. His cheeks were flushed, as would be expected, but nothing worse. He could get away with a couple more slaps if he wanted to, but he held back for the time being. Instead he brought Sherlock's arm up and kissed his fingers before asking, "Where else pet?"

Sherlock pulled himself from John's gentle grip and brought his fingers down the front of his chest, tracing where his shirt buttoned. John reached up to slide his fingers into Sherlock's hair, not forgetting he'd shown John that too, and gripped tightly. Then he used his other hand to rake across Sherlock's chest, straight down the centre, leaving scratches from his nails. This was good but he needed more, so he did it again - harder this time, so Sherlock's chest had scratches all the way down it, some almost breaking the skin. He followed with kisses, still gripping Sherlock's hair to keep him still as he ghosted his lips down the angry red lines.

"Go on..." John prompted. So Sherlock slid his hands around his waist, indicating that she had put her hands on his stomach under his shirt. John growled at this and his expression darkened. "Did she go further?" He asked, in a very careful tone, clearly keeping control of his temper by a whisker.

Sherlock smiled tightly and shook his head. He had been inordinately relieved when the police had burst in just as he was running out of excuses to not let her undo his trousers.

John frowned for a moment in thought, then leant down to kiss Sherlock deeply on the mouth. As he did he snaked his hands around Sherlock's waist, gripping hard. He pushed Sherlock further into the bed with those hands, claiming his mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, forcing him to concede to John with every movement. He pulled back, then dragged Sherlock up to him, still using the hands around his middle, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and then when both of them were sitting, John still straddling Sherlock, he let go. The hard kisses turned softer and more seeking, and his hands were gentle, tracking over Sherlock's back and stroking his arms. Eventually John's lips stilled and he pulled Sherlock in to a hug.

"She put her creepy serial killer hands on what is mine." John told him quietly, "She won't get away with it, you'll find all the evidence needed to put her in prison forever. And she will never touch you again. You are _mine_, and I'll make sure of it. If she lays even one finger on you again I'll kill her"

Sherlock gasped at the intensity of John's voice and the possessiveness behind the words. Never had anyone wanted, _coveted_, him like this. Sherlock was aware of his physical attractiveness and wasn't above using it for his own benefit if it suited him, but he had nothing but scorn for those who lusted after his body, only seeing the symmetry of his transport.

Then there was his mind, and plenty of people wanted him for that too - wanted his clever deductions and razor sharp intellect. But they were using him too, only after what they needed and gave scant regard for his own needs and desires.

John was different. He made no secret of his enjoyment of Sherlock's body but his affection went so much deeper than that. John admired his mind, supported his work, never asked for anything in return. He knew the best of Sherlock and the worst of him, and wanted him regardless. And when Sherlock heard those words..._You are mine... _coming from John's mouth he believed it completely. There wasn't a single part of Sherlock that John didn't want to own. It was intoxicating.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely. He believed completely that John was saying the truth, that if that woman came near him John would kill her, without a second thought, not because she had hurt him but because she had made him uncomfortable. The feeling of power that gave Sherlock was heady - all the more so because John had killed for him before, so he knew this was no empty promise.

"Feeling better pet?" Asked John, calmer himself now he had acted on his need to make Sherlock his again.

Sherlock smiled in response, dropping back onto the pillows in an exaggerated laziness. "Much" he grinned.

John laughed and clambered out of bed, pulling Sherlock up behind him. "Come on, we need to get up. Promised Lestrade we'd do our statements this morning at his office."

Sherlock groaned and moaned but passively got out of the bed and headed to his room for clothing. John met him downstairs in the kitchen later and forced a mug of tea and a slice of toast on him. "Eat" he said sternly, putting all his captain tones into the one syllable word. Sherlock smirked in recollection of the last time John had used that voice which had been for something far more fun than making Sherlock eat, and John had mock-tutted in response, his eyes dancing as he too remembered.

oOo oOo

Sherlock was putting his coat on at the door when John appeared in front of him, looking resolute and with a definitely military stance. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in query and paused, his coat in his hands. John reached down to his pocket and pulled something out of it, which he held out to Sherlock.

"My dogtags." He explained. "I want you to wear them today. Thought they would help you remember...that you belong to me."

Sherlock put down his coat and took the tags in his hand. Rubbing his thumb across them he could feel the stamped letters on the cool metal, the tags themselves edged with soft rubber. He fancied he detected the traces of desert dust in the length of chain and he gripped them hard, unable to believe John had given him something so precious and sure that any moment now John would change his mind and take them away again.

John reached his hand out for them and Sherlock felt a momentary stab of pain before relinquishing them. Until the pain made way for joy as John leant over and put the tags over Sherlock's head and tucked them in his shirt, close to his heart. His hand lingered on Sherlock's chest, splayed over his shirt, feeling the touch of the metal underneath.

Satisfied, John smiled and held out Sherlock's coat for him. He passed Sherlock his scarf and the detective looked down with a query - the day was warm.

"Your neck," John clarified, "Is, um, well I may have been a touch overzealous earlier." He said unrepentantly, eyeing the bruises with amusement and a tinge of lust.

Sherlock laughed and took the proffered scarf and wound it around his throat.

oOo oOo

All day long the dog tags burned a hole in Sherlock's chest. He felt them there, touching his skin, tapping against his clavicle as he walked. They chinked together, even with the rubber seals, and Sherlock fancied they were calling to him; _John's - John's - John's - John's_ as he paced, reminding him with every step who he belonged to.

_Belonging,_ thought Sherlock as he made his statement to Lestrade, _is a strange state. I've never belonged to anyone before. How does it work? John doesn't own me in the literal sense. I'm not his slave. He didn't buy me or barter for me. Should I be worried about this? Is John going to be expecting something of me now I'm his. Or at least, as I haven't told him. That I don't belong to him. I don't think I do, anyway._

_Maybe I do belong to John, _as the two shared a late lunch in a restaurant in Chinatown. _But how? Did he steal me when I wasn't looking? Did I give myself to him? Did he ask me and I agreed? I don't remember... Must have deleted it, but I don't delete John things. Maybe it was subtle and I didn't notice. Yes. John is a thief - he stole me away from myself when I wasn't paying attention._

_Do I mind? _As they sat in the flat drinking tea and working separately. _I never thought of being someone's before. I've always been 'Sherlock'. Never with an add-on, a 'Sherlock and ...', or a 'Someone's Sherlock'. Not sure if I like it. Not sure if it is safe. But then, danger has never been a problem for me. Or for John. I guess if anyone was going to own me and lay claim to me then he is the man for it. At least he isn't boring. _

_Do I trust him? _As they watched telly, John laughing at the inane comedy, Sherlock deep in thought, fingering the dogtags absently. _Of course, easy one. I trust John with my life. Ah. But this isn't just about my life, it is about my soul or some other sentimental nonsense. But yes... if I was forced to admit such a thing existed, I'd say I trusted John with it. I wonder why?_

_What will he do now he has me?_ As they lay in bed together, Sherlock wide awake, dogtags still clutched in his hand, John close to sleep. _He could hurt me - tell me he doesn't want me any more, but I don't think he will do that. I suppose it might be good, belonging to John. He doesn't have girlfriends at the flat any more, which is better. He wants to make me happy, I can tell. He might push it every so often and make me do something hateful like shopping or cleaning, but he does care. He doesn't ever threaten to leave. Besides, I wouldn't let him - he's mine._

Oh. Oh!

"John"

"Yes Sherlock," John replied absently, already half asleep.

"You are mine too, aren't you? You belong to me?" Sherlock was hesitant, unsure of his revelation.

"Of course," John murmured, more asleep than awake now, "always have been, thought you knew."

John slept. Sherlock lay awake for some time, curled up around the doctor, unable to keep the smile tugging at his lips from showing happiness he felt.

* * *

**A/N - **As always, thanks for reading and for those who review / comment. Your ongoing support and lovely comments make it a pleasure to write. Hope you enjoy (and I promise some kinky dog tag action in the next chapter!).


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N - Warnings **As per summary - power games, M/M sexiness, and a touch of kink. Please don't read if it isn't your cup of tea. Thanks!

* * *

Sherlock never quite got round to giving John back his dogtags, and John never asked. John liked that Sherlock wore a piece of him, and Sherlock liked having something of John's so close to his heart.

It was a couple of weeks later when the next crisis hit, although John privately thought 9 days out of 10 living with Sherlock should be defined as a crisis of some sort. Time had passed productively for them both in a mix of cases and clinic hours. Much to Sherlock's frustration, John still refused to do more than kiss him, despite the not-so-subtle hints Sherlock gave him about wanting to see whether the doctor was as good at fornicating as he was at foreplay.

That day John came home from the clinic late, and Sherlock could tell as soon as he set foot on the stairs that it had been a bad one. He could hear the uneven gait which told of the limp returning, and the pause for his keys, indicating John had been lost in thought and hadn't got them out of his pocket before he arrived at the door.

Sherlock, in an unheard of fit of compassion, not only put down his violin and opened the door for John before he found his keys, but also headed into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He wasn't going to go as far as making tea, as John made far better tea than Sherlock ever did, but he figured boiling water gave John a head start.

John smiled absently in appreciation of Sherlock's efforts, and excused himself to shower and change. When he came back down he went into the kitchen and made them both tea then sat down in his chair. Sherlock was in the window with his violin, playing softly. He didn't ask for details of what had happened - he already knew. So for once, instead of demanding John tell him, or torturing the strings, he gave John something to listen to. Beautiful sweeping music, breathtakingly sad, expertly and hauntingly played. He played for an hour, piece after piece, while John sat in his chair with his eyes closed, the tension slowly releasing from his body as he listened.

Finally Sherlock stopped and came and sat opposite. John opened his eyes to look at him. "Thank you. You know what happened?"

"I can make a reasonable deduction, yes." Sherlock confirmed. "How old?"

"She was seven," John's voice cracked as he explained, "she only came in for a course of antibiotics."

Sherlock was silent, listening intently.

John continued, scrubbing his eyes with a hand as if to remove the images from his mind. "I saw her, and then she went with her mum. They were crossing the road outside the surgery when the car clipped the kerb. Neither stood a chance."

Sherlock remained still, focusing completely on John.

"I just, well, I thought after I'd left Afghanistan, left the army, I wouldn't have to deal with trauma like that again. It was so hard - we are just a little clinic and I didn't have any of the kit I should have had, the kit I used to have when I was - well. Not that it would have mattered. She died in my arms. And it brought it all back, you know? Not just the little girl today but all the guys out there that I tried to save... all those other lives that ended while I held them."

"Did you do everything you could to save her?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes." John's voice was certain. "There was nothing that could be done - if I'd had a whole field hospital right there I still couldn't have saved her."

"Were you able to provide comfort?" Sherlock was surprised at the question that flew from his lips. It wasn't what he had intended to ask at all.

John looked at him strangely. That was an very un-Sherlock thing to say. "Yes..." this time more cautious, "I think I helped her. Made it easier, less scary for her at the end."

Sherlock nodded briskly. "Then you did everything you could have been expected to do and more."

"I know," said John sadly, "It just doesn't feel enough some days."

Sherlock stood to walk back to the window, pausing as he walked past to put his hand on John's shoulder in comfort. "You are a good man John Watson. You did everything you could to save her, and you gave her peace of mind when all was lost. I only hope when it is my last minutes I have someone as compassionate and skilled as you by my side."

John gawped at the unexpected praise from Sherlock, and felt absurdly comforted.

oOo oOo

They passed a quiet evening together, each absorbed in their own thoughts and tasks. John updated his blog and caught up with emails, needing to reach out and connect with those around him, even if just electronically. Sherlock had an experiment on the go and sat at his microscope making copious notes on the findings.

It was still relatively early when John started to make moves towards going to bed. He brought his cup out to the kitchen and did some half-hearted tidying before stopping in the doorway, looking at Sherlock.

"If you are willing, I'd like your company tonight."

Sherlock looked up to see a burning intensity in John's eyes. He nodded slowly, once, and then looked back down at the slide.

"Give me 10 minutes. Come up as you are please."

Sherlock felt an imperceptible shudder of anticipation run through him at John's tone and requests. Well, commands really, even if he said please. He knew what John needed - knew he needed to _feel_ something, shut the rest of the world away for a while and get lost in sensation. _I can give him that, _Sherlock thought as he finished his notes quickly and made his way to the bathroom to clean his teeth.

Once done he headed up to John's room. He paused at the top of the stairs. John's door was open and John was standing in it, blocking Sherlock's entry.

"I'm not going to be nice tonight. I won't ask, I'll take." John said without preamble. "So you should tell me now if there is anything you specifically don't want."

Sherlock shook his head, "No John, I don't think so... Oh, no gags please."

John nodded, knowing Sherlock's request was sensible - he needed to be able to speak out if this was going to be intense.

"And your safe words. Tell me what they are," John insisted.

Sherlock didn't mock or roll his eyes as he usually would. Instead he met John's gaze and told him calmly "I'll tell you Amber if I need you to slow down or pause, and Red if I need you to stop completely."

"I'm going to restrain you." John told him, not to get permission but to make sure Sherlock was clear. "And I'm going to hurt you. But I won't go too far. I won't give you more than you can take. Do you trust me?"

Sherlock looked at him - looked at how he stood, the thoughts running through his eyes, the position of the chair in the room. His analysis told him to trust John - that John was upset but very much in control and that Sherlock wouldn't be harmed. So he nodded.

"Go kneel by the chair pet, in your usual spot." John stood aside, and beckoned him into his room.

oOo oOo

Sherlock, anticipation pulsing through his body, took up his position by John's chair. He was fully dressed as requested, still in his suit trousers and shirt. He placed himself facing the chair, allowing enough room for John to sit down between the chair edge and Sherlock's knees. Satisfied his positioning was correct he kept his hands soft in his lap and his head held high. He was unendingly grateful John actively encouraged Sherlock to maintain eye contact and didn't expect him to bow his head. It would kill Sherlock to forgo his ability to deduce through what he saw - he would be lost without it.

He heard John shutting the door behind him and moving around the room but he didn't turn around, just kept his gaze on the back of the chair. Sherlock ascertained that the bedside drawer where the toys were kept was being opened, and several items removed. He thought he heard the sound of the riding crop but he wasn't certain. Something else too, but not sure what. He definitely heard the chink of the two pairs of police cuffs being placed on the bed and he shivered involuntarily.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind wander over what might happen that night. He felt John continue to move around the room, but didn't try and analyse what he was doing. He drifted through memories of previous evenings with John, and thoughts of things they had discussed but never participated in. It all helped heighten his awareness of the here and now, and put him in the right mood to submit. He already knew this wasn't a night for being petulant or pushing back. Some nights John enjoyed that, but tonight he would want Sherlock to be willing and submissive.

When he felt a light touch on his shoulder he brought himself back and opened his eyes. John was sitting in the chair in front of him with an impassive look on his face. Sherlock gave him a small smile in recognition that they were about to begin and that he was ready. John reached forward and stroked Sherlock's cheek, running his thumb over his cheekbone. Sherlock leaned into it, enjoying the touch. John's thumb ran over his lips and he stilled, awaiting instruction.

"Open." John said softly.

Sherlock obediently opened his mouth and John ran his thumb inside, over Sherlock's teeth and lips. Then he took two fingers and pushed them inside Sherlock's mouth, depressing his tongue and touching everywhere, running along Sherlock's gums, exploring his mouth. Sherlock gagged slightly but didn't move. John pushed further - all four fingers, prising Sherlock's jaw wide. He pushed them deeper, and this time Sherlock really did gag. John laughed coldly. He did it again, and again until there was drool running down Sherlock's chin. Then he eased back to the first two fingers, just to the first knuckle.

"Suck, pet." He commanded.

And Sherlock did. He sucked on John's fingers willingly, teasingly, showing him what he could do with his tongue and mouth. He wanted to show John that when he was allowed to do this to other parts of John's body he would be very eager, and very _very_ good at it. His eyes half closed and he moaned involuntarily at the thought.

Suddenly the fingers were pulled out of his mouth and the saliva on them wiped across his cheek. John laughed at him again, "You're a needy little thing today, aren't you pet?"

"Yes John" _always safer to answer, even if I'm sure it is a rhetorical question_.

"I know you were thinking about something other than my fingers in your mouth, weren't you. Something else you'd like to suck on pet... that is, if I ever let you." John's tone was teasing but still hard. "Maybe one day, if you prove yourself worthy..."

Sherlock was disgusted at himself when a desperate whine rose from his lips at this. He really should be able to control himself better, but John just smiled smugly as if Sherlock had proved his point.

"Poor little pet," John taunted, running his thumb back over Sherlock's slightly parted lips, pulling the lower lip down further with a touch of pressure, teasing and testing to see what he could do before Sherlock would move or react further. Summoning every ounce of his willpower Sherlock did nothing, just allowed John to tease him. He wanted to kiss the thumb running over his lips, draw it into his mouth, bite down gently on it with his front teeth. But he kept still, waiting.

John said nothing but his lips curved imperceptibly into a smile of approval and Sherlock was pleased.

Finally growing bored of playing with Sherlock's mouth, John reached down and unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt, leaving it hanging loose, framing his chest - bare except for the dogtags around his neck. He sat back in his chair to admire the view - Sherlock really did have a lovely body, so pale and pristine. Perfect to be marked and teased. John loved the way just a touch would leave a red mark, and only a little more pressure resulted in a bruise that would last for days. John was in the mood today to leave many marks. He wanted Sherlock to be looking at reminders of this for some time.

He slid forward to the edge of his chair and reached down and pushed the edges of the shirt aside to rub Sherlock's nipples with his thumbs. They quickly became harder and he played with them for a couple of minutes, twisting and pulling on them until they were slightly swollen. Bringing out a couple of plastic clothes pegs from his pocket he clipped one on each erect nipple, eliciting a gasp from Sherlock. They hadn't done this before so this was a new experience. John watched with interest as Sherlock struggled to accept the sudden pressure and pain, before it eased and he relaxed more, each part showing clearly on his face. John had realised right from the first session that when Sherlock decided he was going to commit to this he held nothing back and his emotions were, for once, clear. John liked this - it showed yet another element of the trust Sherlock gave to him.

oOo oOo

John gave the pegs one final flick with his fingers then stood, walking over to the bed and the implements he had placed there. Handcuffs, riding crop, and the wooden ruler, just in case. John sighed a little in regret. He still missed the effect of the belt but wouldn't reintroduce it, especially on a night like this. The riding crop would do as a substitute, and would be a good place to start that evening.

Sherlock remained kneeling on the floor, careful not to move his head round to see what John was doing. He heard John come up behind him so wasn't overly surprised when a hand slid through his hand and dug in, pulling his head back and baring his throat. John towered over him, riding crop in his spare hand. However, instead of using it he tipped Sherlock's head to one side and bent down and bit his neck just below his ear - hard - almost drawing blood. Sherlock hissed with the sensation but managed to avoid actual speech. John let go of his hair with a slight push, so Sherlock's head dropped down until he raised it back up a second later to look straight ahead again.

John circled him, riding crop outstretched to trail along Sherlock's shoulders as he went. "Now, my pet, I'm not going to pretend this is for you tonight. It is all for me. You are just a useful vessel for my need to hurt someone. So don't expect me to be _kind_ to you." The word 'kind' came out as a sneer. "Because I'm not going to. I'm going to take everything I want until I feel better."

Sherlock felt his adrenalin starting to pump at John's words. He was already primed and the dull throb from the pegs on his chest was adding to the mix. Soon he knew the endorphins would start to flow and it would all feel even better. He was close to begging for John to start, so he could get to the delicious stage where it all went fuzzy and his brain was still. But he held back, aware that asking for anything tonight would likely leave him waiting even longer for release.

He waited as patiently as he could as John continued to circle and taunt, occasionally flicking the crop down over his shoulder blades or his bare chest. The sudden bursts of pain were addictive, and he wanted more. John knew this of course, so delayed it as long as possible, enjoying the frustration Sherlock was showing and revelling in the power game being played.

Eventually John stood in front of him, tipping his head up to look into John's eyes with the help of the tip of the crop under his chin. "Bed, my needy little pet." John commanded, "Lie on your back with your hands gripping the headboard."

John stood and admired the view as Sherlock crawled to the bed then lay down as he was told to. Both of them had racing pulses and quickened breathing as they thought about what might come next. Unsurprisingly, first it was the handcuffs, which secured Sherlock tightly to the bed, arms stretched out to give John plenty of access to his chest. The handcuffs were tight too - a single click further than Sherlock was comfortable with, and he knew that was deliberate. If he struggled too much he would have bruised wrists to show for it in the morning.

Once Sherlock was secure John reached down to undo his trousers, careful to avoid touching Sherlock whilst doing it, making sure he didn't even get a brush of hand against his already hard cock. John smiled a little to see the effect he was having, but then studiously ignored it - now wasn't the time. He slide Sherlock's trousers off, leaving him clad in his tight shorts and open shirt.

Next John took the riding crop and used it to tap on Sherlock's thighs until he got the idea and spread his legs so John could kneel in between them. He liked this position - gave him plenty of access and enabled Sherlock to move around more than if John straddled him. It also left Sherlock deliciously vulnerable, displayed in such a way with everything on view to John.

He started slowly, a tap across Sherlock's stomach, a slightly harder slash across his legs. Teasing and testing and building up to the next level. Finally he let loose - four hard strikes across Sherlock's thighs, leaving the detective gasping and calling his name. Then back to the taps and gentle strikes. At some point he took the pegs off and was gratified by Sherlock's shaky "_Fuck!"_ in response to the throbbing as the blood flowed back. Again and again they went through this cycle until Sherlock was almost incoherent with need.

John sat back and admired the view. Sherlock was cuffed to the bed with his arms above him, shirt open to show off his reddened chest and thighs, and straining for more. John leant forward between Sherlock's legs and told him, coaxing, "Tell me how this feels, pet. Talk to me. Full sentences, or I'll do it again"

"_John_, please, more, stop, I can't" Sherlock babbled, so caught up in it he could hardly remember his own name let alone string a sentence together.

"Yes, you can pet. Now do as I said," And John used his cold hard Captain's voice as he emphasised each word with a flick of the crop.

Again Sherlock was unable to answer. John smiled. He loved it when he was able to reduce the great detective to a quivering mess.

"Tell me love" John whispered insistently, "Tell me what i'm doing to you... how much you like it when I hurt you in this way. Tell me or I'll stop."

"John!"was all Sherlock could say as his eyes rolled back in his head and his back arched as he tried to simultaneously get closer to the crop and away from it. _He is so fucking hot,_ John thought, his own arousal clear as he surveyed the detective below him, _so receptive to this. I could string him along like this for hours, teasing him, bringing him up to the edge of pleasure-pain then back down again. Each time getting more intensive. I don't think I'd ever get bored of it._

With a growl John got off the bed and stripped down to his boxers. He wanted to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock's heated flesh against his own, unencumbered by clothing. He got back on the bed and lay to the side of the cuffed detective, pressed up against the immobilised form. He stroked his fingers down Sherlock's body, feeling the heat rising from the reddened and bruised areas.

"My beautiful man," John whispered, sliding his left hand up to Sherlock's throat and grasping the dog tags. Carefully, slowly, he wound the chain around his hand until it was tight against Sherlock's throat.

"Speak to me pet." He commanded.

"John," came a whisper from Sherlock.

John tightened the tags a touch, listening to the sound of Sherlock's breath becoming more shallow and slightly gasping as his airway closed off. He held it for a count of 15 seconds, then eased off on the pressure, allowing Sherlock some much needed oxygen.

Sherlock's mind was racing, and in a good way. He was already high from the combined adrenalin and endorphin from the crop, and now oxygen deprivation was making his brain fizz at the edges. He gasped when John loosed his grip and felt the air rush back into his lungs.

John propped his head on his elbow and smiled as he looked down at Sherlock. "Like that pet? Enjoying the buzz?"

Sherlock looked at him wide eyed and nodded, still focusing on the sensations running through him.

John gave him a little time, waiting until his breathing had steadied, then did it again. This time for a count of 20. When he released he frowned down at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed.

"Open your eyes." John commanded, needing to assess whether he was okay or not. This was a risky game and he really didn't want to accidentally asphyxiate his flatmate. "You'll have to answer some questions for me now pet, before I'll do it again. I don't want to burn through too many of your clever brain cells, no matter how much I enjoy watching you struggle. And you thought breathing was boring," John teased. He thought for a moment, then, "Name me all the bones in the wrist."

Sherlock frowned at having to perform at such a time when all he wanted to do was retreat into his mind and analyse how it felt. But he responded briskly, "Scaphoid, lunate, triquetral, pisiform, trapezium, trapezoid, capitate and hamate"

John nodded approvingly. "Good. This time we'll go a little longer, see if we can get to 25..."

And the game went on. Each time John held on until he could feel Sherlock phasing out or until his designated count, then released him. Each time he insisted Sherlock recite various parts of the anatomy afterwards to check he was still okay. The second the response got a touch sluggish John stopped. He was enjoying this immensely but didn't want to risk harming Sherlock.

With a sigh John lay back on the bed. He felt replete, his frustrations at the day gone, and his need to hurt his friend gone with them. Sherlock had been so good - submissive, willing and responsive. It was exactly what he had needed.

Sherlock was laying silently with his eyes closed, his mind mostly blank, enjoying the last tendrils of blackness from the breath control games. His body twitched occasionally, still processing the chemicals rushing round his bloodstream. He felt John stroke him and he leaned back into him as much as he was able given how he was restrained, enjoying the physical closeness.

John reached over to the table and picked up the key to the cuffs and released Sherlock from the headboard. He helped him remove his shirt then recuffed him with his hands in front of him, wrists cuffed together. Pushing Sherlock onto his side, John curled up behind him, rubbing his body against the quivering and primed detective.

"You've been very good pet," John praised him, kissing the back of his neck as he spoke "So I'm going to give you a reward. Something nice. Would you like that"

"Yes please John," Sherlock whispered, unsure what it would be.

He was surprised when John reached down and eased Sherlock's underwear off, pausing for a moment at the waistband to give Sherlock a chance to refuse if he didn't want this. Sherlock wasn't going to stop John - he had been desperately hoping John would progress to something more sexual than a kiss for weeks now.

John teased the naked body pressed against him, exploring with his fingers, stroking his hand up and down Sherlock's thighs and across his stomach, edging closer and closer but never quite touching where he needed it. Sherlock was rocking gently with desire, not daring to move too much in case John stopped. All the while John was kissing Sherlock's neck, occasionally biting down before licking the sore spot and moving on. His other hand was in Sherlock's hair, not tight but teasing, reminding Sherlock that John was in charge.

Finally John gave in and reached down to stroke Sherlock's cock. It was hot and hard and dripping with arousal. John stroked it at a steady pace, tantalisingly slowly, knowing it was probably not enough to get Sherlock to orgasm, even though it wouldn't take much after all the buildup. He pulled Sherlock's head closer to him so he could alternate between the kissing/biting and whispering in the detective's ear, reminding him of all the things they have been doing, and the wonderfully bad things John planned to do to him next time.

Enjoying the steady stream of little gasps and whimpered whispers of his name, he took his hand out of Sherlock's hair and clutched the dog tags, appreciating the feel of them in his fingers. He sped up his other hand, adding a twist, listening to Sherlock's responses to figure out what felt good to him.

He could feel Sherlock getting closer, incoherent moans coming from him now as he tried to focus on the words John was whispering and both the the tightness around his neck and the way John's hand was stroking him.

"Let go for me pet" John crooned, pulling the tags tighter, cutting off Sherlock's airflow a tiny bit more, making him gasp, "That's it... give in to me. You can be _such_ a good plaything when you just let go."

And with that, the detective came completely and utterly undone and orgasmed hard, calling out John's name. John released the the tags and pushed his hand into his boxers, finished himself off with a couple of strokes, already almost there from the combination of watching Sherlock and the friction from Sherlock's arse grinding against John's cock as he had stroked him.

They both lay back, breathing hard. "Okay love?" John asked.

Sherlock laughed shakily and said "I think so John. That was...Um...Intense."

John smiled and ran his hand down Sherlock's side. "It was." he agreed.

With a sigh John got up and went to the bathroom to sort himself out and for a cloth. He carefully cleaned Sherlock, who was still cuffed and coming down from it all. Undoing the cuffs John kissed each wrist, then kissed Sherlock on the mouth. It was sweet and gentle, and undemanding.

"Thank you," John said sincerely, looking into Sherlock's eyes. "That was beautiful."

Sherlock in an unusual burst of reticence didn't know what to say so smiled and pulled John back down onto the bed. There was no question tonight of who would sleep where. Instead the light was turned off without words, and soon both were asleep, equally drained and exhilarated from the night.

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**A/N - **As always, thanks for reading and for those who follow / review / comment. Hope the dog tags lived up to expectation :o) Thanks to 'I'm Nova' for their comment on the last chapter - I only wish I'd intentionally alluded to Doctor Who... But alas I can't claim to have been that clever this time. Pure fortuitous accident I'm afraid...

Next chapter will be later in the week...


	12. Chapter 12 (interlude)

"Greg!"

"John? I was after Sherlock."

"Yeah, he's tied up right now so muggins here is answering his phone. Can I help? Pass a message on?"

"Oh. Right, yeah. So that last case... With the diamond... We need to review the security camera footage again."

"And you need him to come in? I'm sure he'll be fine with that."

"-snorted laughter- yeah right! He hates this kind of thing and I know it. But I do need him. If you could get him here I'd owe you one mate."

"Don't worry about it, I'm sure I can find a suitable motivator to get him to come in. When do you need him?"

"3pm?"

"No problems. See you then, Greg."

"Cheers! I really do owe you one."

Sherlock glared at him balefully from the chair he was currently tied to naked, ball gag in his mouth. John smirked, leant in and kissed him on the cheek, pinching a nipple at the same time.

"Now my darling, where were we...?"

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**A/N** - short and sweet, but chapter 13 is up today too!


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N - **warnings as per story summary. M/M sexiness in this chapter

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It had been a pig of a case. They had spent days staking out a brothel only to discover the woman they were trying to rescue had been spirited away to somewhere unknown - definitely outside of London, probably out of the country - a day before. The thermometer was hovering around freezing and it hadn't stopped raining in days so they were soaked through and filthy.

Both of them were exhausted, numbed by the combination of the cold and wet and the disappointment at having lost the woman. They sat in the taxi back to Baker Street in silence. John was so tired he couldn't even string a thought together in his head let alone vocalise one. He was just content to sit and let London pass by through the taxi window. He was starving hungry too and his mind couldn't decide what he needed more - a hot shower, food, or just to go to bed and sleep for about 20 hours. He idly thought that whichever he chose chances are sleep would win out. _Wonder if it is possible for me to fall asleep standing in the shower. I did that once when doing my medical training, at the end of a 40 hour shift in A&E..._ And the thought was gone before he could finish it.

Finally they made it to Baker Street and fell out of the taxi. John found his wallet and thrust a note at the driver while Sherlock stood at the door, keys in hand. When John reached him he discovered Sherlock was propped up with his head against the door and was snoring softly. John poked and prodded him grumpily until he woke with a start and opened the door.

"Christ I'm getting too old for this." John muttered as he stared at the stairs up to the flat with dread. With extreme tiredness also came the phantom limp and he was seriously contemplating just sitting down in the hallway and sleeping there rather than attempting to climb.

"Come on," Sherlock muttered gruffly, his voice even deeper than usual. He put his arm around John's waist and between them they staggered up the stairs. Once they made it Sherlock went to collapse on the sofa but John pulled him back, swaying on his feet from the effort.

"Don't sit down, you'll fall asleep," he scolded.

Sherlock turned and raised an eyebrow in mock disbelief. Because sleep would be _such _a bad thing right now.

"No, 'm serious," John attempted slurring slightly, "food, then shower, then bed."

John dragged Sherlock into the kitchen, opening cupboards and the fridge at random until he found a packet of chocolate biscuits. Not exactly nutritious but quick, and would at least get some calories into them. Putting them on the kitchen table he gestured to Sherlock, "Eat! Three each then we can go to bed, promise."

Sherlock huffed but took a biscuit and nibbled on it. John poured them a glass of milk each which got a "seriously?!" from Sherlock but he ignored it.

"No tea, too tired." He explained, knowing Sherlock would be able to translate that into a proper statement.

Sherlock tutted but took the glass, not bothering to summon the energy to object properly or even throw a decent insult out. John ate a biscuit in 2 bites then downed his milk before cramming another biscuit in his mouth. After the fourth chocolate hobnob he was starting to feel better. Sherlock had eaten two biscuits and drank about half a glass.

"Enough?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and made to stand up.

"Shower? Think you can stay awake long enough?"

"I'm perfectly fine." Stated Sherlock, disdain clear. Then he ruined it by stumbling in the doorway and having to be caught by John.

"Together?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't reply so John figured that was close enough to a yes and pushed Sherlock into the bathroom, shutting the door behind them both. He turned the shower on, adjusting the heat until it was hot but not scalding, and sat on the edge of the bath. Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt but was making very slow progress with it. John pulled his own jumper over his head and shrugged off his trousers and boxers. Turning to Sherlock he helped him with the last of his clothes and then stepped into the tub, pulling the lanky detective in after him.

He was unable to stop a moan of pleasure when the hot water his the back of his neck. He was bone achingly tired but this was worth it - to go to bed clean and warm after the past few days was a great luxury. Physically manhandling Sherlock, who seemed to have lost the ability to move of his own accord, he shoved him under the water and grabbed his shampoo. Gruffly he instructed Sherlock to duck his head so John could reach then washed his hair before tipping the detective's head back under the water again to rinse. Doing the same to his own head he then picked up the shower gel and briskly soaped them both.

When they were clean enough to satisfy John he turned the shower off and handed sherlock a towel before drying himself. Sherlock had roused himself sufficiently to use it on himself and rub his hair abstractly to get rid of the worst of the wetness.

John stood at the doorway to Sherlock's room hovering, staring resentfully at the stairs he would have to climb to get to his own room. With an exaggerated sigh Sherlock pulled him into his room and onto his bed.

"Sleep here," the detective told him shortly, and flicked up the duvet so they could both crawl into the bed.

John thought about putting up a token resistance - he'd never slept in Sherlock's room before after all, but it seemed too much effort so he merely nodded and fell into the bed gratefully, dropping the towel from round his waist as he got in.

"G'night" he told Sherlock as he turned the light off, snuggling under the warm duvet.

"Night John," whispered Sherlock, curling up behind him.

oOo oOo

John woke up in the morning to find Sherlock looking down at him with a calculating expression. He idly thought he should be affronted at the invasion of his space, or concerned about what Sherlock was plotting, but he was warm and sleepy in a bed that smelled deliciously of Sherlock and didn't care enough to do anything about it. Besides, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He shut his eyes again without a word and willed himself back to sleep, more than aware that Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to wake him if he was needed.

When he woke again some time later Sherlock had progressed from staring to touching. He was running his fingers lightly over John's upper body, cataloguing and assessing. John noted that the fingers lingered on the scars, the imperfections. He kept still, allowing Sherlock's analysis to continue. The detective was clearly fascinated and went back to the same areas repeatedly, comparing them to other parts of John. It wasn't a sexual touch, it was dispassionate and clinical, and John forced himself to remain impassive while Sherlock collected data.

Sherlock was particularly interested in the scar on John's shoulder from the bullet in Afghanistan. He traced the patterns of scar tissue over and over, tapping the middle of the scar which corresponded with the entry point on John's back, and then laying his hand flat on John's front where the gaping exit wound had left major scarring. He was assessing the multiple scenarios that the single gunshot to that area of the body could result in, and the probabilities of John having come away with more significant loss of function, or death. Sherlock could tell exactly how close a call it had been, how near to his heart the bullet had flown, how it had been millimetres from nicking an artery that would have meant certain death in the desert. He hesitated to calculate the astoundingly low probability even in his head that John Watson had not only survived, but had made it back to London and was living a full life.

Sherlock had seen glimpses of the scar before and had made some deductions in the past, but this close up view and inspection had given him a much fuller picture of the incident. He knew John had been shot by a sniper. That he had been reaching down, possibly leaning over something (someone?). That he had been moving as the sniper had fired. It was fascinating physical evidence of a life changing event. He wanted to ask John about it - he wanted to tell John what he had deduced and have him tell Sherlock he was correct - but he was hesitant for a change. John was usually very relaxed about Sherlock's deductions, even of himself, but Sherlock got the feeling that if John wanted to talk about this with him, he probably would have done so by now. He stroked the scar again and again while he worked out the best way to lead into the conversation he wanted.

John interrupted the thought process, well aware of where Sherlock was going in his mind, "I'll tell you what I remember Sherlock, but I confess a lot of it is a bit of a blur."

Sherlock frowned and continued to tap and stroke his fingers on John's shoulder. He told John what he had deduced - the sniper, the movement, the distance, that John had been reaching down. He refrained from telling him about the probability of all those events combined leading to death.

"Yes, you're right, as always," John said, his mind going back to that day. He absently pulled Sherlock down to him so Sherlock's head was on John's chest and he stroked him as he spoke.

"It was a routine patrol, nothing special. There were six of us and we were walking north towards the nearest village - about 5 miles from base, checking out all the farm buildings in between. We'd been in the camp for a while so we knew all the local families. It was good to check in on them, make sure everything was okay. Nothing we hadn't done a hundred times before - not that we were complacent, but... you know... there was nothing to say that day was going to be any different from the last however many times.

"We were following the road, and then we turned off it to go check on the biggest farmhouse. There had been a family there but it got bombed a couple of weeks before so it was pretty ruined. We weren't expecting there to be anyone around but it was on the patrol schedule so we still had to cover it, even though it was clearly abandoned.

"So there we were, walking single file down the track at the edge of the field, laughing about a rumour doing the rounds about Jones and his girlfriend when Williams stumbles and falls. I thought he'd tripped over a rock or something so I bent down to check if he was ok. And the next thing I know there is a burning pain through my shoulder and Andrews and Mac are down. The other two - Jones and Dixon were returning fire. Found out later there was a sniper in the hills above the farm house.

"I, uh, well, I guess I was lucky. I mean, I got home. Andrews and Williams never made it out of that field. Mac died two weeks later back in the hospital."

John fell silent, his mind back in the searing heat of the Afghan day with a tonne of body armour and kit on his back. He could smell the sand and the dusty crops; hear the insects, lazy in the hot sun. He closed his eyes and it all came flooding back, how quickly it had all happened, how he had desperately tried to patch Williams up and keep him alive even as he himself bled out, how they had waited for what felt like hours for backup. Then he didn't remember much. A flash of helicopter blades and gunfire cover as they were evacuated; the field hospital where he had worked, being raced to the OR as a patient rather than a surgeon; then nothing until he was back in the hospital in Birmingham, on the military ward.

"What did it feel like?" asked Sherlock, "Being shot?"

"It was strange." John mused, remembering, "It feel hot at first - like someone had stabbed me with a red hot poker. I didn't even realise it was a bullet to begin with. It didn't hurt as such... I guess the adrenalin blocked it out while I was trying to get Williams to safety... but then, well, I guess it hurt every bit as much as you'd expect really."

Sherlock's head was on John's chest and he carefully listened to every word John had said, and all the things he glossed over but which had come across in his body unconsciously as he recalled - the fear, the pain, the sorrow of losing the other men. "Will you tell me more some day?" Sherlock asked, feeling the reassuring solid beat of John's heart under his head, telling him better than any words that John was alive. "You don't talk about the war, but I'd like to know. If you'll tell me."

"Some day, yes," John stalled, "I loved Afghanistan - the country itself was beautiful. Harsh and unforgiving but spectacular. And the people... I do have good memories of some of it. I was there for three years, and I intended to stay longer."

Sherlock remained silent, sensing John's unwillingness to continue with the subject.

With a sigh and a stretch John opened his eyes and straightened out in the bed, lifting his head to look around the room for the first time. He didn't often go into Sherlock's room so he was interested to see what it was like. Not that Sherlock spent much time in it these days - he invariably slept on the sofa or in John's bed. The room was fairly plain and not as cluttered as John had originally thought, although the dresser top had collections of 'things' on it. _Well that would be because all the rest of Sherlock's mess is in the living room, _John thought with an internal eye-roll. The bed was big and soft with lovely egyptian cotton sheets, and he rather liked it. The room didn't really epitomise the detective, but then John thought his desk in the living room, the microscope and experiments in the kitchen and violin by the window did that very well. Sherlock was too large a personality to be confined to one room.

He was interrupted from his inspection by Sherlock looming over him. John raised an eyebrow and asked mildly "Yes sweetheart?"

Sherlock frowned, "What is it with you and the saccharin names? In the last five days I've been pet fourteen times, love eight, darling twice, and now sweetheart."

"It's your own fault" John told him, laughing, glad the conversation had moved on to lighter topics. "You said I could call you darling if I wanted to, so I thought I would... and any other pet name I fancied. Although I still like _pet _best." John's eyes darkened slightly as he flashed through his mind some of the delicious scenarios Sherlock had been in when John had called him pet.

Sherlock huffed in disapproval. "Anyway," he said briskly, dismissing the names conversation as irrelevant, "I am aware that you are in my bed. And naked. And you haven't been either before."

"Oh?" replied John innocently, his interest in this conversation increasing.

"Yes." Sherlock's tone was matter of fact, "And I would like to know what you plan to do now. As I have two experiments in the fridge that I should really see to. If..." and then Sherlock died off, suddenly and inexplicably embarrassed at what he was asking.

John grinned at him and sat up in the bed. "Yes, you are correct, we are both naked and that is indeed new, although I've seen _you_ naked plenty of times." John managed to turn the second part of the statement into a very exaggerated leer of appreciation complete with a flick of his eyes up and down Sherlock's body, hidden under the duvet.

Sherlock flushed, and grinned.

"Sherlock..." and John's tone was serious now, "I want to be clear. This is your space. I'm not comfortable with bossing you around or making all the decisions in here. Your room should be somewhere safe - a place you can escape to if you need to, where I won't make demands of you."

"I understand that..." Sherlock said slowly, understanding the logic but not the sentiment.

John pulled the detective to him in a rough embrace, stroking the curls under his hand, "I guess the way it works is that outside in the real world you lead us because you always know what it is we should be doing, and I do my best to help. Then here in the flat I am in charge, because you need someone to give you that freedom, and make sure you to do stuff like eat and sleep occasionally. In here, in your room, we are equals. So if you want to kiss and cuddle, or whatever, then that's fine, and you and I can do that. But if you ask me to do any kind of power play I'll say no."

"What would _you _like John?"

"Me? Oh, I'm not in a rush to move - unless you want your room back? If not I'd like to lie here for a little longer with you."

Sherlock shuffled his head around to look up at John. "That would be nice."

John smiled down at him, then pushed himself back down the bed so he was lying down again, now with Sherlock's head against his shoulder. Sherlock wriggled until he was comfortably wrapped around John then hummed with pleasure.

It didn't take long before the cuddling turned to stroking which turned to kissing and then to a whole new inspection of John's body by Sherlock, this time aided by his tongue as he tasted all the skin he could reach. Sherlock thought that John tasted particularly good that morning - a combination of sleep, clean sweat and cotton sheets, particularly potent at the pulse points which he returned to frequently, licking and mouthing the inside of John's wrists and elbows, the side of his neck.

John lay passively, enjoying not being in charge for once. He liked the pleasure Sherlock was showing in being allowed this access to John's body and his enthusiasm for inspecting and teasing every part of him. John was pretty sure his reactions to every touch were being recorded, and felt vindicated that this suspicion was probably true when Sherlock unerringly laved his tongue against every single erogenous zone John had on his front one after the other, eliciting a breathy gasp from the doctor.

John's breathing got heavy and his cock twitched. He had woken hard but the whole scar discussion had quashed it soundly. But now under the ministrations of Sherlock's clever fingers and tongue he was more than a little aroused. He forced himself to lie still and allow Sherlock to continue, even though he desperately wanted to flip him over onto his back and conduct the same skin tasting experiments on him. He noted with amusement that Sherlock was aiming lower and lower with each sweep of John's body. He'd reached John's navel and was currently flicking his tongue in and over it, making John squirm.

Sherlock looked up with amusement dancing in his eyes. "Shall I go lower John?" he asked, his voice deep with arousal.

John flicked the duvet off them both in response, showing Sherlock how hard he was.

"I guess that's a yes then."

Sherlock looked up at John as he crawled around the bed to kneel between John's knees, smirking at being able to do whatever he wanted to John for a change. He'd not seen the doctor naked before so spent some time inspecting and touching and licking his legs and thighs and lower belly. John's gasps and moans of pleasure spurred him on and he enjoyed knowing he was teasing John at the same time as satisfying his own curiosity.

"Sherlock," John said warningly, being driven mad after many minutes of close inspection of everywhere apart from where John wanted, "If you don't do something soon I'm going to stop being polite and flip you over and rub myself against you until I cum."

Sherlock looked up and laughed, and then his eyes went dark and he slid back down the bed to hover above John's cock, licking his lips as he kept his eyes on John. John shut his eyes with a groan, hoping that Sherlock was going to put him out of his misery soon.

"This is nice," Sherlock told him, close enough that his breath felt hot against John's skin. "I like having you in my bed."

John growled and Sherlock laughed again, but took pity and brought his hands up from John's knees to the base of his cock. Very gently, using the lightest pressure, he stroked and teased until John was gasping for more. The skin here was soft over the underlying hardness. He ran his thumb over the slit and rubbed the drops of arousal over the foreskin. Reaching down, Sherlock took John's balls gently into his mouth one at a time, mouthing them and exploring them with his tongue then sucking on them, all the while allowing his long fingers to ghost up and down John's cock.

"Oh god, Sherlock, please!" John whined, gripping the covers with his fists.

Sherlock looked up, his mouth still busy, and hummed lightly in amusement. This send a shudder down John's spine so Sherlock did it again, testing tones against response, until John was almost vibrating with need.

"Sherlock! Please!" John begged.

Finally, Sherlock took pity and brought his mouth up to the base of John's cock. Flattening his tongue, he licked a wide stripe all the way up it, and another, until the whole thing was slick and wet. Only then did he finally bring his mouth down onto the tip of his cock, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head, flicking it over the slit. John groaned with pleasure.

Sherlock dipped his head, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked and pressed his tongue against the underside of John's cock, providing delicious suction. John thought that the slippery heat of Sherlock's mouth and the wonderfully wicked things he was doing with his tongue were absolute heaven, especially when Sherlock added his hand to the mix, cupping and fondling his balls. He couldn't help but put a hand in Sherlock's hair, not to direct but to feel connected. He needed to touch him.

It wasn't long before John was gasping his way through an orgasm, having spent so long being teased beforehand. Sherlock hummed with pleasure at the feel of John's seed pumping into his mouth, lightly sucking him through it until he was spent.

With a sigh John moved his hand from Sherlock's head and pulled him up to kiss him. "God that was good," he told Sherlock, "You really are amazing, you know. Bloody genius, you are"

Sherlock smirked and dove in for another kiss, while John pulled him back to lie on the bed.

"Now, what shall I do with you?" He asked, looking down at the naked detective with a smile, taking in his flushed appearance and swollen lips. John ran the palm of his hand over Sherlock's achingly hard cock and was gratified with the resulting groan.

John decided not to tease the man any further and instead set to providing a reciprocal blow job, using every trick he'd ever learnt to make sure it was good. Sherlock had been amazing and John wanted to prove he was good with his mouth too.

Sherlock moaned and groaned and called his name repeatedly as he licked and sucked, building up a rhythm and driving Sherlock deep into his mouth. He brought Sherlock to the point of orgasm then back down, again and again. He raised his eyes and saw Sherlock looking down at him, watching every move he made. John loved that, and knew exactly what to do to tip him over the edge completely. Bringing his left hand up, he touched the first two fingers against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock quickly drew them into his mouth and sucked on them hard, flicking his tongue over them in imitation of John's actions on his cock. When John could feel they were nice and wet he brought them back down and gently teased them between Sherlock's buttocks until he found his tight hole. He didn't try and enter it, just used his wet fingers to rub and tease the tight muscle, gently flicking over it and running around it until he could feel that Sherlock was close again. Then slowly, in time with his mouth on Sherlock's cock, he inserted the tip of one finger into the tight hot hole, then back out again. Not stretching him or pushing for length, just teasing all the nerve endings just inside the muscles.

With a loud "John!", Sherlock felt his balls tighten and his orgasm passed the point of no return. He exploded, while John watched him with heavily lidded eyes, his tongue busy coaxing every last second out of it. Slowly, carefully, he removed his finger and stroked Sherlock's thigh until the aftershocks were finished and Sherlock had relaxed bonelessly into the bed.

As they both lay back on the bed, sated and happy, John thought, _I can definitely think of worse ways to start the day_.

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**A/N - **As always, thanks for reading and for those who follow / review / comment - I love feedback!


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N Warning - **M/M sexiness and some D/s, as you'd expect if you've read the story so far. Enjoy!

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The fire crackled, sending dancing light across the two men curled up together. John was sitting in his chair and Sherlock was sprawled on the floor between John's legs, leaning against the seat, resting his head on John's knee. Sherlock had one arm wrapped around John while his fingers stroked John's ankle, and the other holding his glass. John was leaning back, his head against the cushion, one hand dangling near to Sherlock, the other also holding a wine glass. They were both watching the flames, savouring the very good pinot noir Sherlock had opened.

It was peaceful.

Conversation had ebbed and flowed, but now they were quiet, reflective. The hour was late and they would soon have to retire to bed, but not yet. First there was time to sit and enjoy each other's company and the fire flickering in the dark room.

Sherlock sighed and stretched his legs out. He was surprisingly content to sit and not do anything, and his mind was unusually silent. He was tired but not unpleasantly so and he was feeling a faint buzz from the wine. Feeling the need to be closer to John he put down his glass and reached up to grasp the hand dangling near him. Pulling it gently until John leaned forward, he took the palm and planted a soft kiss against it. John squeezed his hand gently in appreciation.

John broke the silence, his voice sounding slightly hoarse from lack of use, "Want to come up here pet?"

Sherlock passed John his glass and crawled up into his lap, resting his head against John's shoulder. It was somewhat challenging to fit two grown men into one chair but they managed it. John loved having Sherlock so close to him, especially when he was relaxed like this. He went completely boneless and was totally receptive to little touches and strokes. Being curled up around each other in the chair, physically connected at so many points, soothed them both.

John gave Sherlock back his wine so he could have another sip and ran his fingers across Sherlock's scalp, lightly scratching it with his nails. Sherlock tipped his head from side to side like a pandered cat, directing John's fingers to where he wanted them while John smiled down indulgently. When Sherlock pulled his head back John placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. Eventually John eased back and dropped his hand down to Sherlock's shoulder, pulling him in close.

"This is nice," John commented, keeping his voice low and quiet, barely audible, "I love it when we get time like this together."

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed, "Doesn't happen often does it?"

John laughed silently, "Nope. We just have to enjoy it when we get it."

Sherlock took another sip of wine then leant forward to put his glass back on the table. Reaching up, he took John's too and moved around so he straddled the doctor. Putting his hands on John's chest, he placed a soft and gentle kiss on John's mouth. John responded willingly so Sherlock kissed him again, this time deepening it and running his tongue against John's lips until he opened them and allowed access. John tasted of wine and cinnamon and vanilla, and of sunshine and laughter and loyalty. Sherlock flicked his tongue around John's mouth, tasting and feeling as he went. He ran it over John's top lip, then across his teeth, then dipped into his mouth proper, teasing against John's tongue which danced fleetingly against his. Neither was pushing for dominance in the kiss, just a gentle give and take. It was slow. Languid. Delicious.

Eventually they stilled and Sherlock went back to leaning against John.

"What time is it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at his watch and frowned. "Late, past midnight."

"Oh." John was silent for a while, "I suppose we should go to bed," he added reluctantly, thinking _I don't want to move. This is perfect. Would be quite happy to stay here in front of the fire all night. But it will get cold soon and the bed will be warm. If only I didn't have to get from here to there. _

Sherlock sensed John's reluctance to move and felt the same way himself, although he was keen to make it to bed at some point that night, but not for sleeping. He and John had done many things together but hadn't yet made it to full penetrative sex, and Sherlock wanted it and calculated that this night, with them feeling so close and relaxed, was the time to do it. Not that he had told John this.

They sat for another ten minutes or so curled up, drinking wine, both silent. Eventually John sighed and eased himself up, moving Sherlock off his lap.

"Sorry love, I really do have to go to bed." He told him, apologetically.

John banked the fire then came back to Sherlock who was standing uncertainly by the chair.

"Can I come up?" Sherlock asked, pretty sure of the answer but needing the reassurance.

"As if you need to ask!" John growled at him, capturing him for another kiss as he did, this time needy and promising, sucking and scraping his teeth across Sherlock's pouty lower lip. He kissed Sherlock again, gently this time, then released him and headed up the stairs.

"Bring the rest of the wine with you pet." He called down as he went.

oOo oOo oOo

Sherlock pottered around doing his nighttime tasks. He didn't rush, knowing that John appreciated a little time to himself at this point too. Then he picked up the wine bottle and a couple of fresh glasses and headed up the stairs. He paused at John's door. After all this time of play they had developed a set of rituals that worked for them and allowed them both to slip into their designated roles. Sherlock knew not to go into John's room without express permission. So he knocked, waiting for John to open the door for him before entering.

When John opened the door he was clad in just a pair of pyjama bottoms, and Sherlock's eyes darkened in lust at the thought; _John is half naked. John is mine to touch and he's only wearing those bottoms. They are so worn they are positively see-through. I'm sure it is on purpose to make me lust for him even more - if that is possible. I can see the outline of his hardening cock already._ Sherlock himself was still fully dressed in a shirt and trousers, although his shoes and socks had been lost some hours before when toasting his feet in front of the fire. Sherlock held up the wine bottle and glasses and smiled invitingly, asking,

"May I come in please John."

Sherlock could feel a curling tendril of submission snaking through his brain, encouraging him to give in to what he wanted that night - to be everything John could ask for and more. He wanted John to call him _good_ and _amazing _and _brilliant, _and he would do everything he could to make that happen_._ He could sense the possibilities multiplying in his brain - all the fantastic things that could take place in John's room with the two of them, and how good it would feel. His mind was alive with the pleasure and anticipation, and he closed his eyes briefly as the primal need to be controlled and dominated took over.

John moved away from the door to allow Sherlock to enter, pulling him in for a quick kiss as he came past. Sherlock deposited the wine and glasses on the bedside table and turned to face John, waiting passively for direction.

"Come back here love. I want to undress you."

Sherlock obediently walked to where John stood by the bed. He felt self consciously tall, and ducked his head slightly. John didn't notice as he was too busy undoing Sherlock's shirt and kissing his way down the detective's chest as each new inch of skin was revealed. Sherlock sighed with pleasure - he loved it when John looked after him like this.

_I used to think this was all a transaction - John provides me with a release through pain receptor stimulation resulting in a release of chemicals in my brain which have the effect of making everything go quiet for a while. But it is so much more than that. I didn't realise then but I do now. The more he controls me, the more I submit to him, the better it is. I don't need the chemicals to get the hit, John can do it just with the right words said in the right tone of voice. It is better than the cocaine, he is like an orange shock blanket for my brain._

_This whole evening has been leading up to us together now and this joining of both bodies and minds. I know what he is thinking - I read it on his face and in his hands. He wants me, wants me to give him this power over me. And I want it too... it feels...It makes me feel... peaceful. Like contentment. Even now, when _John_ is undressing _me _I'm still submitting to his will. It is an act of supplication to him to stand still and not just tear my clothes off impatiently. _

John silently stripped Sherlock, treating each new area of skin reverentially. He took his time, stroking and kissing as he went, exploring every inch. When Sherlock's shirt came off John ran his fingers down Sherlock's arms, starting at the shoulders and ending with his finger tips. He could feel his own skin tingling with the touch, and Sherlock's responded with goosebumps where John's fingers had laid. Turning him around, John had kissed Sherlock's back, across the shoulder blades then down the vertebrae, silently naming each bone he touched with his lips as he went.

He removed the dog tags from around Sherlock's neck, placing them carefully on the bedside table and licked the spot where the tags usually rested, following it up with a kiss. _I love that Sherlock still wears my tags close to his heart. Every so often when we are out I see them through his obscenely tight shirts and it makes me feel all primal / possessive / ownership because no-one who sees those tags with my name on them could ever doubt that this fantastic, stunningly handsome man with a brain the size of a planet and an ego as big as a solar system is mine. Mine!_

John undid Sherlock's trousers, gently palming his already hard cock as he unzipped the fly. He snaked the trousers down below Sherlock's hips then motioned him to sit down on the bed behind him. Pulling the trousers free and dropping them on the floor, the doctor kneeled and raised first Sherlock's left leg and then his right, kissing his way up his leg - from the inside of his ankle to knee to inner thigh.

"I draw the line at toe sucking." John remarked as he grasped Sherlock's right foot to repeat the process. Sherlock giggled, watching every touch with lust filled eyes. Eventually he came back up to Sherlock's waist and ran his fingers around Sherlock's shorts before tugging them gently down. Sherlock raised his hips to help but said nothing and kept his hands by his side, gripping the duvet in his fists to stop himself.

John reached down into the bedside cabinet and brought out a length of soft white rope. "Give me your wrists please pet." he directed and Sherlock willingly held them out, hands clasped, so John could bind them together. They had done this many times and the familiar action was pleasing to both of them.

"Okay?" John checked when he was done, tugging the ends to check the knots would hold.

Sherlock unclasped his hands and moved them slightly. The ropes were binding but not tight. "That's good," he told John.

John manoeuvred the bound detective onto the bed until he was lying in the middle with his hands by the headboard. "Stay still," John reminded him, "but don't feel you have to stay quiet. Speak if you want to."

"Thank you John," Sherlock replied as John got off the bed and stood looking at him admiringly. _That man is seduction personified as a lanky 6 foot detective. And I get to touch him!_

Turning away John found matches and lit a couple of large candles on the bookshelf then switched the bedroom light off. The soft glow of the candlelight enveloped them and the space instantly became more intimate.

"I would have stayed downstairs in front of the fire," John told Sherlock as he moved the candles until he could see clearly enough, "but I knew we wouldn't linger if we ended up on the floor, and I don't want to rush this tonight. So candles will have to substitute for firelight."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, "Yes, fires are nice, but beds are infinitely more comfortable than wooden floors."

John came back to the bed and sat on the edge. He ran his hand lightly down Sherlock's side from his elbow down to his thigh, skimming his hip bones. "You are so beautiful, pet." he told him in a soft whisper, the candlelight having cast its spell and shut out the rest of the world, "especially when you are like this - naked on my bed, waiting to submit. You lie here completely willingly and you don't know what I'm going to do to you but you don't care so long because you know I'll take care of you one way or another. I could fuck you into the mattress, or whip you till you bleed... I know you'd like either of those. I mean, you'd beg me not to, but you'd be rock hard and dripping with pre-come, begging by the end for more, for me to let you orgasm. Or I could just tie you to the bedpost and leave you in here all needy and panting while I sleep on the sofa. And you'd let me - you'd do any of it. You are perfect, just perfect."

Sherlock felt a chill of pleasure run down his spine at John's words. He could sense the honesty in John's voice yet he was amazed at the language. _I'm not perfect, _Sherlock thought, _I'm well aware of my faults - I'm arrogant and selfish and people don't like me. Donovan calls me a Freak. Except John. John thinks I'm beautiful and amazing. He _makes _me those things - makes me want to be all this for him. His mind is so filthy, and I see in his eyes he is picturing each and every one of those scenarios he describes and then I see them too. He... _

He looked up, suddenly aware his mind had clearly drifted from the here and now to see John staring down at him in amusement.

"Back with me pet?" He asked, "Do I have to punish you for that transgression?"

Sherlock shivered again, but this time in anticipation. He bit his lip at the thought of punishment when he was so primed - John was right. John could do anything to him today and he wouldn't object. _Good job John doesn't take advantage. _

"It will wait," John told him, dismissing it. "I want to kiss you now. I'll spank you later." And John's eyes lit up at the thought of turning Sherlock's lovely arse red.

For now though, John's attention was all on Sherlock's lips. Straddling him, he pinned the bound wrists with a hand of his own, using the other hand to cup Sherlock's chin and direct his head to where John wanted it. He teased to begin with, revelling in the power he had to give Sherlock what he wanted, or nothing at all. Just the lightest brush of lips against lips to begin with, tantalisingly delicate. Then a pause, their lips almost touching, as John breathed slowly, exhaling deliberately into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock instinctively breathing in John's outbound air, until he felt dizzy with the sensation and the carbon dioxide, and bucked his hips and arched his back in an attempt to actually kiss John.

John laughed as he backed away out of Sherlock's reach, "None of that pet, I'll kiss you when I'm good and ready," his voice thick with promise.

Sherlock moaned in frustration but lay back down in begrudging obedience, head still buzzing.

John went back to the same position, lips just above Sherlock's with hardly a hair between them. He held still, looking deep into Sherlock's eyes. He could see that Sherlock was totally and utterly committed to the moment and it gave him a jolt of arousal to see that intellect and brain focused just on _him_. It was intoxicating and with a groan John gave in, closed his eyes, and crushed their lips together hard.

This time there was no finesse to it - it was sloppy with teeth and tongues and gasping noises. He bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip - the one the detective had been worrying with his teeth earlier - and nipped at it until he could taste the coppery blood. Licking at it he used the hand on Sherlock's chin to hold his mouth open so John could attack it with his tongue, forcing Sherlock to accept him as he fucked the detective's mouth, showing him in no uncertain terms what he wanted to do to him later. Sherlock moaned, a primal unmistakably sexual sound, and it just spurred John on to deepen the kiss further, forcing his tongue into every corner of Sherlock's mouth, proving his dominance again and again.

_Oh hell, _John thought, _if he keeps responding that well to my tongue we'll be lucky to make it to the fucking. He's so receptive. The second he parts his lips for me, let alone anything else, I'm half-blind with need._

John ground his erection into Sherlock's groin. "Feel me pet," he gasped as he rubbed against the detective's hard and swollen cock with his own equally swollen member, "Can you feel what you do to me?" Already he could feel a patch of damp slickness on his pyjamas as his leaking cock ground against Sherlock's. Sherlock groaned and raised his hips to meet John's, bucking against him helplessly with the limited movement afforded by his pinned wrists.

"Oh_ fuck _I want you"Sherlock cried, "Please John!"

"Language pet," John chided, moving his hands to rest on Sherlock's hips and hold him still while John continued to rut against him, seeking the perfect angle to give him satisfaction. _Gnahhh. Want it. Want more. I'm too close already. _ _Feels too good to stop yet. Just one more thrust then I have to stop or I'll come in my pj's which would not-inconsiderably-suck given my plans for tonight. _

Finally, unable to stand any more friction against his throbbing organ, John jumped back, climbing off of Sherlock's body to sit by his side and pour himself a glass of the wine.

"Thirsty?" He asked Sherlock, who nodded in response and started to sit up. John stilled him with a hand.

"No, stay there. You want some wine?"

Sherlock frowned but answered "Yes, John. Please."

John threw his leg back over Sherlock so he was straddled by the good doctor. Looking down at him with a glint of anticipation in his eyes, John took a sip of the wine. He swallowed, appreciating the berry and plum aromas in the excellent red. Taking another sip, John leant down to Sherlock and kissed him.

_Is John teasing me? _Sherlock thought, _As much as I enjoy kissing I did want some wine. _And then to his surprise John gently opened their joint mouths and allowed his mouthful of wine to trickle into Sherlock's open mouth. _Oh god! It is warm from John... It tastes deliciously of a combination of wine and John. More! That was incredible._

Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips. "John?"

"Yes pet?" John smirked, having noted the moment of stillness mid kiss that told him Sherlock was not expecting that.

"Please John, can I have some more?"

* * *

**A/N - to be continued! **I was intending this to be one chapter but I unintentionally created a monster, so I've split it. I'll post the second half of the scene before the end of the week. Much smuttiness will ensue, I promise!

Heartfelt thanks and virtual jelly babies to all those who review / feedback / follow. Your comments really do spur me on to write more, and to write better.


	15. Chapter 15

**Warnings - **explicit M/M sexiness.

**A/N** - This chapter is a little different in that you've got the same scene three different ways. I hope it works and you enjoy!

* * *

John flipped Sherlock over on the bed so he was lying on his front, wrists still bound in front of him. Grasping his hips he helped him move with a husky "On to your knees, pet. Spread your thighs or I'll spread them for you"

Sherlock kept his head down, resting it on his forearms as he balanced on elbows and knees on the bed. He opened his legs for John, then wider as John slapped his thigh to encourage further movement.

"You have a punishment owing, don't you pet?" John asked sternly

"Yes John"

"Why don't you remind me what it was for?"

"I didn't pay attention to you John, I'm sorry." Said Sherlock with a hint of apology in his voice, but also a big dollop of anticipation.

"Hmmm. You seem to be enjoying the idea of this far too much. Maybe I won't spank you after all?"

"Oh! Oh please John, I really did stop paying attention, it was quite wrong of me. It is one of your rules after all." Sherlock was trying to be winsome with varying degrees of success. It wasn't a trait that was often ascribed to the detective. Ruthlessly charming, yes, but never sweet and innocent.

John snorted with laughter at Sherlock's pathetic attempt but gave in anyway - he really wanted to spank him so wasn't going to give up on it just to spite Sherlock.

"You might regret this pet, but it is your own fault..." and with that John gave him a resounding slap across the arse. Rubbing his hand over the skin he had struck he was again amazed at how quickly heat rose against it. Aiming for the other cheek this time he provided two in quick succession and was gratified with the resulting gasp from Sherlock and the lovely rosy hue it brought to his skin. He continued in this manner, raining down hard slaps on both Sherlock's arse and thighs until they were glowing red.

John eventually stopped and kneeled there between Sherlock's spread thighs admiring the view, stroking the hot and tender flesh. Sherlock had been babbling throughout but John hadn't listened - too intent on what he was doing.

"Well done pet, I knew you'd manage to take it." John told him sweetly, "And look what a perfect position you appear to be in for what I have planned next."

"John?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to fuck you yet."

The crassness of that word, _fuck_, and the casual way John said _yet_ went straight to Sherlock's groin and his cock twitched and leaked yet another bead of pre-come. Sherlock stayed still, waiting to be told what to do next. He was slightly surprised when he felt John's hands on his arse cheeks, pulling them gently apart, but not as much as when he felt a rush of warm breath and then John's tongue dance across his tight hole.

He bucked away in shock. "John!"

"Come on pet, surely you aren't _that_ innocent?" John queried, smirking, as he pulled the detective back into position. It was rare for John to have the chance to shock Sherlock. "Now, stay still, I was enjoying doing that," he ordered.

Sherlock wasn't innocent, or naive, but he really hadn't expected the doctor to indulge in rimming. He had experienced it before but it wasn't exactly his favourite act. His face coloured with unexpected embarrassment. John had his tongue _there._ In fact, John was currently swiping his tongue all over Sherlock's arse, from his balls along his perineum over his entrance and back again, agonisingly slowly.

"John, please, stop." Sherlock gasped, mortified.

"Shhhh. I'm busy." And John spread Sherlock's cheeks further with his hands and focused on Sherlock's hole, first using his tongue flat to lick across it then hardening his tongue to flick little beats against the sensitive skin, making it all wet and open for him. He followed it with a few gentle kisses.

"John, I don't want..." Sherlock tried again.

John sat back and slapped Sherlock's arse. "Did I ask you if you wanted anything?"

"No John"

"Did I say I was enjoying it?"

"Yes John"

"Then what _exactly_ do you think you are doing?" John's voice was low and dangerous and Sherlock

"I just... it feels...strange"

"Pet... I thought we had established that this was for my benefit not yours. So I don't really care how it feels to you. Unless I'm hurting you unintentionally or you really don't want this and you need to safe-word, I suggest you shut up and take it."

Sherlock made a half-sob, half-moan sound as he tried to balance between the unease of the idea of the act, the fact it actually felt very nice, and the submissive pleasure of John forcing him to do it regardless.

John went back to licking and sucking at Sherlock's entrance, enjoying the feeling of the muscles relaxing under his ministrations despite Sherlock's mental block. He used his tongue to lap softly, feeling the tightness of the muscle, flicking it around the sensitive edges, pressing down with his tongue in a point to ease the detective open. He pulled Sherlock's cheeks apart as far as he could and tongue-fucked him, moaning to himself as he did it. John liked doing this anyway, but Sherlock's reluctance was fast making it an especially enjoyable kink.

As his tongue grew tired John pulled back slightly and teased instead with his finger, feeling how wet with saliva Sherlock was and how soft and easy to penetrate. _Would be too easy to stop now_ he thought, so he went back to long licks along his perineum, all the while working one finger into his tight arse.

"John!" This time Sherlock's voice was balanced more towards lust and desire than mortification.

"Shhhh! Still busy here. No more talking." And John punished him with an especially squirmy tongue lapping all around his entrance, noisily sloppy and intrusive.

* * *

**John**

_Enough playing around. Time for something more serious. Want to spank him now. Let's get him on his knees and spread for me._

"On to your knees, pet. Spread your thighs or I'll spread them for you"

_Ah, he thinks he is obeying but I know his legs go wider. A little slap will help encourage him, and give him a clue as to what is coming next. That's it Sherlock, nice and wide for me. Lovely. He didn't really disobey - well not seriously - but I'm still going to spank him. It's all a game after all. If he didn't like it he'd object properly. I know Sherlock submits to me willingly but I also know he has more than enough sense to tell me no if he didn't want it, or at least attempt to reason his way out of it._

"You have a punishment owing, don't you pet?"

"Yes John"

_Good answer. Keep going sweetheart. I'm going to be stern with you because you need it, I know you need this. And I need it too. I want to hurt you, just a little. _

"Why don't you remind me what it was for?"

"I didn't pay attention to you John, I'm sorry."

_No you aren't! You aren't even remotely sorry. Don't you think I can tell when you are faking it? Time for some reverse psychology. Although given the view I've got right now the chances of me not doing this are nil. Christ that arse is just begging to be spanked. And I can see everything from here... That rock hard cock... when we've not done anything much really. And your hole is so tight. I'm going to stretch it out tonight. Love seeing it swollen and ready for me. You acts so perfect outside in your tailored suits and flash coat but underneath it all you're a bit of a slut really. Look how quickly I got you to display yourself. _

"Hmmm. You seem to be enjoying the idea of this far too much. Maybe I won't spank you after all?"

"Oh! Oh please John, I really did stop paying attention, it was quite wrong of me. It is one of your rules after all."

_Ha! For an astoundingly clever man you are pathetically bad at getting emotional responses right some days. Still, I'll give you this one. But only because I want it. _

"You might regret this pet, but it is your own fault..."

_One last chance to enjoy the view before I turn those pristine white cheeks a nice rosy red. God I love that sound of flesh striking flesh. And the feel, if I stroke his skin just afterwards I can feel the heat rising. Feel the imprint of my hand too... oh yes, another one just there where there is a touch of pale skin left. He's going to be sore tomorrow. Might only be my hand but this is definitely on the edge of bruising, specially with skin as delicate as his. I love that he lets me do this. I love that he will let me cuddle him afterwards too and admire the bruises tomorrow. I know he gets off on the little physical reminders as much as I do. Must bite his neck before we finish... the last bruise has just about faded. Can't have him walking around unmarked. _

"Well done pet, I knew you'd manage to take it. And look what a perfect position you appear to be in for what I have planned next."

"John?"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to fuck you yet."

_He loves it when I talk dirty. The nastier the words the faster he reacts to it. Especially when I slur it slightly. See, just a little 'fuck' and he's squirming. Wonder what else I can say to him? Not that I'm going to be doing much talking now. Right now I want to see if I can get my tongue into that tight hole of his. Maybe lewd acts will get him going as quick as dirty words._

_His hole is so tight. Think I'll just loosen it up with a bit of saliva. A quick swipe of my tongue over it... oh that feels good! He's completely exposed and I don't think he was expecting me to do that._

"John!"

_Nope - he didn't expect that. Excellent. Well I'm not stopping - I want to do this, and he's going to let me. Love pushing his boundaries in this way. _

"Come on pet, surely you aren't _that_ innocent? Now, stay still, I was enjoying doing that,"

_Mmmmm. His skin feels different here to the rest of his body. I can feel the line between the muscle and the flesh. The texture is slightly rubbery but not unpleasant when I tease it with my tongue. He tastes clean, of course, wouldn't do this if I didn't know that. Wonder if I can reach his balls from this angle - oh, not quite. Shame. Still, a nice long lick from there right back to here is going to make him shiver. Yeah, just like that sweetheart. You are going to give me everything tonight, and I'll make you orgasm so hard I'll be peeling you off the ceiling._

"John, please, stop."

_Bollocks! Does he mean that? If he really wants me to stop I will, but I'll be disappointed. I'm going to push him a bit further. When he really means it he usually tries to make eye contact no matter what I'm doing. And I'm not hurting him, just teasing him. He can move or walk away, I'm not restraining his legs. _

"Shhhh. I'm busy."

_Nah he didn't mean it. Just look at him displaying himself for me. Oh this is good. All that spit and teasing is starting to get somewhere. I can feel him opening up for me. If I tap on the edge with my tongue it just sort of 'gives' for me. Won't take much more before he's opening right up. Let's break the tempo, give him a breather - and my tongue! A few little kisses, just to show I care._

"John, I don't want..."

_Now I'm getting irritated. He does want this, I can tell, his body doesn't lie to me. If he just let himself go he would be moaning for more right now. I know this feels good. I've done it often enough, I know how to make him squirm with pleasure if he would just let himself. I'm going to have to put the Captain voice on again - he always responds well to that. _

"Did I ask you if you wanted anything?"

"No John"

_Ah, better, see - contrite already. _

"Did I say I was enjoying it?"

"Yes John"

_And... time to get serious with him. He isn't going to get away with it this time. I gave in over the spanking. I'm not giving in on this - not unless he uses his safe word or tells me with his body that he doesn't want this. He wants me to dominate him, so he has to let me do that. _

"Then what _exactly_ do you think you are doing?"

"I just... it feels...strange"

"Pet... I thought we had established that this was for my benefit not yours. So I don't really care how it feels to you. Unless I'm hurting you unintentionally and you need to safe-word, I suggest you shut up and take it."

_Was that too hard? Did I push him too far? Oh! Nope. The noise he just made - that needy whine of his - that's his 'I want this but it feels wrong to want it so I'm objecting on principle but it feels so good' noise. Sherlock's not that hard to read when he is in this headspace. _

_I'm really enjoying this. He's really soft and yielding now. Good - means he's relaxing despite himself. Oh god, I've just got to see how it feels when I fuck him with my tongue. Going to be doing this with my fingers and my cock later, but I want to feel him when he's this tight first. Yep - just as I expected. Feels amazing. Wish I could do this all night. This is so lewd, specially as he keeps objecting. Hasn't he realised the more he objects the hotter it is for me? I'm going to make him do this every time if he isn't careful. Wonder if I can convince him to reciprocate too. Mmmmm, that would be nice._

_Let's see how loose he's got. Yeah, my finger slips in no problems. No need for any other lube just yet, not going deep. Shall I move to fingering? I could. But I really want to lick him more. He's on the edge now, a few more and he'll be begging for it. Would be too easy to stop now. _

"John!"

_Yep. He's not telling me to stop any more. _

"Shhhh! Still busy here. No more talking."

_Fuck he's responsive. Let's see how he reacts when I curl my tongue and flick it at the same time right over his entrance where all those sensitive nerves are. Ah! Yeah, just there. See my little slut, you love it really. You say no but you mean yes. And I love you for it. _

* * *

**Sherlock**

"On to your knees, pet. Spread your thighs or I'll spread them for you"

_Knees. Always good. If John is planning to go ahead with the spanking he promised me anyway. Let's see if I can find out... Legs open but hardly spread... ah yes, a slap. As predicted, spanking is imminent. _

"You have a punishment owing, don't you pet?"

"Yes John"

_See John, I remember the rules! Polite, using your name. _

"Why don't you remind me what it was for?"

_It wasn't really for anything. I knew as soon as I came into the bedroom you wanted this - I just gave you the excuse. But if I say that out loud you definitely won't do it on principle. So I'll give you the answer you want. _

"I didn't pay attention to you John, I'm sorry."

_Did that work? Good opportunity to test emotional responses for The Work. Tried to sound apologetic but think my enthusiasm might have trickled through. Must practice apologetic tone next time we are on a case and I'm under cover. Won't give them the satisfaction of seeing me really apologise - only John gets that and only on very special occasions._

"Hmmm. You seem to be enjoying the idea of this far too much. Maybe I won't spank you after all?"

_Hmmm- definitely need to practice that one more. _

"Oh! Oh please John, I really did stop paying attention, it was quite wrong of me. It is one of your rules after all."

_And the sweet and innocent approach. Don't think that one worked for me in the slightest. Good job John can't see my face and the look of disgust at myself that is no doubt playing across it. _

_Still, he wants this. He'll do it anyway... if not this he'll find another excuse._

"You might regret this pet, but it is your own fault..."

_Bliss! He's not holding back today, he's riled up. Not that I'm complaining. It stings but in a good way. I like it when he runs his hand over the area he just hit, like he's warming his hands in front of a fire. Again John, please, again. Oh yes! Feels so good... starting to get sore but I don't care. He could do this all day. More please, oh John. I need your hands... a surgeon's precision with a soldier's strength. You're using your gun hand aren't you? The one you use to shoot people with. You are so dangerous, as if I could ever forget that. I can't think now, just focusing on you and your hands. Keep going. More please John, more!_

_Did I say that out loud? Oh! John's not listening. That was lucky._

"Well done pet, I knew you'd manage to take it. And look what a perfect position you appear to be in for what I have planned next."

"John?"

_What are we doing next? Are you going to slide that delicious cock of yours inside me? I really hope so. I've been waiting weeks for this, for you to get over your hesitance and just screw me into the mattress like I know you want to. Even the way you make tea in the morning just screams out that you are constantly thinking of shagging me. I want it. Want you. Please. I've got lube and everything._

"Don't worry, I'm not going to fuck you yet."

_Mmmmm, love it when you curse, makes me shiver. Tells me everything about how this is going to end up - sweet and slow to begin with but hard and rough by the end. I'm going to feel it for days. Delicious._

_John? What are you doing now? Fingers? No? Holy crap that was your tongue! _

"John!"

"Come on pet, surely you aren't _that_ innocent? Now, stay still, I was enjoying doing that,"

_Doctor John Hamish Watson you dark horse! Never thought you would be one for the delicate art of rimming. This is odd, not sure I like it. Feels too personal, too intimate. I want you to stop. But it feels good too? No, too much, too intense. Stop John, please. _

"John, please, stop."

"Shhhh. I'm busy."

_I don't like it John, I don't want you to put your tongue there. Let's go back to fingers please. _

"John, I don't want..."

"Did I ask you if you wanted anything?"

_He's got that dangerous edge to his voice again. The one that tells me I either need to get on with this and shut up, or make a big deal about it and we will go back to tame vanilla play. I don't want to stop everything, just this._

"No John"

"Did I say I was enjoying it?"

"Yes John"

"Then what _exactly_ do you think you are doing?"

_He's not going to listen to me. He's pushing me today. I could safe-word but it doesn't hurt, I just feel ambivalent at best about it. But he is enjoying it, I can tell. So... _

"I just... it feels...strange"

"Pet... I thought we had established that this was for my benefit not yours. So I don't really care how it feels to you. Unless I'm hurting you unintentionally and you need to safe-word, I suggest you shut up and take it."

_I want him to stop. JohnstopJohnstopJohnstop. Oh! What did he just do? That was... interesting. But it is his tongue! He is going to talk to me at a crime scene tomorrow and I'm going to see the tip of his tongue and I'm going to remember exactly how it felt fucking my arse. Yes, fucking. Even in my head I can't deny this is definitely a fuck. Not fornicating, or shagging, or intercourse. Certainly not the banal 'making love' No, this is hot and heady and a fuck. I love him. He always knows what I need._

"John!"

_Don't stop John, don't stop._

"Shhhh! Still busy here. No more talking."

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**A/N** - well there you go! Hope you enjoyed a little insight into their heads this chapter. As always I love reviews / feedback / follows and thank everyone who regularly comments - it is the _best_ feeling _ever_ to know people are enjoying my writing.

Next update will likely be in a couple of weeks as am away for work so no time to write, alas.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N - **Oh my! I must just tell you all about a really cool coincidence I had - the very lovely steward on my flight to the US last week was called Sherlock! Never met a real life Sherlock before, even though he was about as far away from Mr Holmes as I think it is possible to be :-)

Anyway, on with the story… enjoy!

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Eventually John tired of teasing Sherlock with his tongue and flipped the detective over onto his back, keeping his legs spread. A finger or two played with Sherlock's now soft and yielding entrance, while John rubbed his mouth over Sherlock's cock, licking and kissing it. It was wet with pre-come from all the teasing and achingly hard. As John slipped his fingers gently inside he dipped down to suck on Sherlock's cock, enjoying the feeling of the detective slowly coming apart under his ministrations.

It didn't take long before John was carefully removing fingers and mouth from the quivering man and leaning over to his bedside table for the lube. He slicked up his hand then went back to teasing Sherlock, stroking him inside and working him open using his fingers. This time he propped himself on top of the detective so he could watch Sherlock's face as he fingered him. They maintained eye contact and the combined expressions of bliss at the feeling, and frustration that it wasn't quite enough flashing across those grey-green eyes were intoxicating. As was the moment Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned loudly and incoherently as John brushed gently over his prostate - to John it was the best feeling in the world to be allowed to take his clever friend apart in such a way.

"Sherlock," whispered John, entranced at the sight before him, as he teased and stroked and toyed with him, "will you let me take you tonight? I promise I'll make it good for you, just let me be inside you, please."

Sherlock could do nothing but moan as John's finger lightly touched his prostate again and he saw stars. Sensing that Sherlock wasn't actually able to focus on the words for all the sensations going through his body John laughed and eased back a bit, giving him the space to think for a second.

"Pet," he coaxed, almost pleading, "Please? Can I fuck you? I want to see how good your arse feels around my cock, see how hard you come when I'm inside you. Will you let me?"

Sherlock finally registered the words and felt a moment of confusion. Surely he'd given his consent for this weeks, if not months, ago? But John was asking, so he answered. He lowered his head to look seductively down at John, kneeling between his thighs, and with a grind of his hips over John's still teasing fingers, he told the doctor, "Frankly John, if after all this you _don't_ fuck me I'm going to be most upset."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a brief moment in contemplation of all the things he would do to John if he failed to carry out his promise. Starting with a particularly unpleasant experiment on the kitchen table right around breakfast time that had the capacity to _ooze_ most disgustingly.

Luckily for both of them John had no intention of backing down, and he gently eased out of Sherlock's body - prompting a needy whine from the detective and a smirk from the doctor - and quickly shed his pyjama bottoms. John fisted his ignored erection while looking down at the man spread wantonly on his bed, looking completely debauched and ready for anything John wanted to do to him. There was so much promise in Sherlock's look that John shivered in anticipation. He found the bottle of lubricant and coated himself liberally before moving himself back in between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock gripped the headboard with his bound wrists and tried to relax his muscles as John slowly and carefully slid inside him.

"Okay pet?" John was halfway and could feel Sherlock tensing around him.

Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaled and consciously focused on relaxing. "It's been a while," he admitted, relieved John was allowing him to acclimatise. The pain was a dull ache, an odd sensation of being full somewhere not quite right and his body trying to fight it. Not completely unpleasant, but not helpful either. In a moment or two it had passed and he nodded minutely.

John was painstakingly slow with his approach until finally he was deep within Sherlock. He had all the time in the world for this and was prepared to wait as long as it took. After all, he wanted to be able to do this again - many times - so no point in hurting Sherlock. He patiently held still until Sherlock experimentally moved his hips, moving himself up and down John's cock.

Taking that movement as a sign to continue, John proceeded to carefully and thoroughly fuck Sherlock agonisingly slowly until the detective was begging for more, all the time staring down into his eyes, watching every feeling as it flittered across Sherlock's face. He had totally let go and was being wonderfully open with his emotions - something John didn't always get to experience.

"John!" he cried through gritted teeth, "Please! Harder! I need you to do it harder now."

John smiled down, changed his angle until he was brushing against Sherlock's prostate with each downward beat until the man was back to incoherent groaning, and ramping up his speed, John finally gave in to what he had wanted to do all evening.

"God Sherlock," he gasped as he pounded him into the mattress, Sherlock's grip on the headboard the only thing anchoring them both, "You feel just amazing, so tight, so hot, can't believe we waited so long to do this."

He leant down and captured Sherlock's mouth in a bruising kiss, completing the circle between them and ensuring their connection. This was long past games and playing about with sensation - he wanted to show Sherlock what he meant to him, how much he cared for him, how much he loved him.

Sherlock melted completely under him and they slowed down again, needing to communicate with words as well as their bodies.

"You are amazing pet," John whispered, his voice full of awe as he nuzzled into the taller man's neck, kissing and licking the skin under his mouth. "You feel so good, you are so good."

"John - " Sherlock responded in a groan, arching his back and pressing into John's body above him, tied hands still gripping the board behind him, "I can feel every inch of you inside me, you fill me completely. Don't ever stop doing this."

John chuckled gently at the command, then laughed outright when he saw the effect the vibrations were having on the detective. He reached down to grasp Sherlock's cock in his hand and firmly stroked him, keeping in time with his thrusts into Sherlock's body. This wasn't going to take long for either of them after all the build up, but it was perfect - profound, intimate, everything they had both wanted from the evening.

"I'm so close," moaned Sherlock, falling apart under the combined sensations of John inside him and over him and touching him. John sped up again, working himself deep inside of Sherlock as his hand slid over him in an insistent rhythm. He was close himself, holding himself back with absolute iron will, determined that Sherlock was going to come first.

"Oh! John!" He cried, teetering on the edge.

"Come for me pet."

With a final thrust and stroke over the sensitive head John tipped Sherlock over into a crashing, shudderingly intense orgasm, and with Sherlock's muscles providing irresistible tightness and heat as Sherlock rode it out he too ejaculated, pumping his seed deep within as he called out Sherlock's name, unable to phrase anything more coherent.

oOo oOo oOo

They lay on the bed afterwards holding each other, sated. John untied Sherlock's wrists and kissed the pulse point on each, soothing the red marks left by the rope with his thumb. He found a cloth he'd left on his bedside table for and removed the mess from them both then crashed back onto the bed, boneless and sated. They cuddled as they drifted into sleep, lulled by the rush of chemicals through their bloodstreams.

"My John, my blogger, my doctor, my everything," murmured Sherlock, holding his lover close to him possessively as he relaxed.

"Love you too, Sherlock" was the smiled drowsy response as John held him back, neither of them having any intension of ever letting the other go.

END

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**A/N - and that's it! I think I'm finished with this story now so thanks for reading. I might add a couple more chapters at some point for some stand alone fun (kinky medical play anyone?! Feel free to send suggestions of anything else you'd like to see!) but I think these two are pretty much where I wanted them to get to through this journey. They started as flatmates out for a bit of relief, and ended as lovers with a deep bond. To me that sounds pretty darn perfect.**

**Huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed and followed. This is one of my first forays into writing on here and the support has been awesome. **

**I've another (non crack!) Sherlock story on the go, if anyone fancies a look. Thought I'd have a go at writing an actual plot for a change…**

**Until next time… x **

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